


I will call you pretty darlin', tell me what I am

by flynnwb



Series: relief next to me [3]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, F/F, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Orgasm Control, Pining, Post-Harrow the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), sad girls do bad things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28236864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flynnwb/pseuds/flynnwb
Summary: Gideon had insisted on Harrow’s body remaining fully clothed, a pretense so absurd in light of the situation that Ianthe had struggled to suppress a laughing fit when Gideon first said it.  But Ianthe had (mostly) been circumspect with her amusement, and later, when Harrow - no, correction, whenGideonwas stumbling over her tongue, saying (in that voice with such a familiar timbre but completely unfamiliar heat) “please,” and “god,” and “I need-,” Ianthe had simply slipped the loose black trousers down around Harrow’s bony knees and let Gideon keep her tunic and robe.  Ianthe is, above all things, self-possessed; she isn’t about to lose her hold on the chivalrous little cavalier now by tightening her grip too hastily.  After all, without Gideon to toy with, how else is she supposed to pass the time on this lonely cruiser limping along through an even lonelier corner of space?This work can be read as a stand alone, but is a sequel to:first in the seriesAnd:second in the series
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Ianthe Tridentarius, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Series: relief next to me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052774
Comments: 58
Kudos: 91





	1. make love with the lights on baby, tell me what you see

**Author's Note:**

> **Content notes:**  
>  Tagged dubious consent because Harrow is not available to consent to any activities Gideon might participate in while wearing Harrow’s body, and because Ianthe is. (<\- that’s it, end of sentence.)  
>    
> **If you're enjoying this series, don't forget to leave kudos!**
> 
>  **Title and chapter titles from Lights On by The Pierces** (from the album ‘thirteen tales of love and revenge’ which really has motivated me through this whole series tbh)  
> 

The first time Gideon shows up outside Ianthe’s cabin, she wears Harrow’s body with a kind of exhausted resignation, as a prisoner might wear her shackles en route to her own execution. The first time Ianthe makes Gideon come (ten minutes later, Gideon determinedly silent, collapsed on knees and forearms on Ianthe’s bunk, three of Ianthe’s flesh and blood fingers fucking into Harrow’s cunt slow and hard, thumb grazing her clit as an afterthought) Gideon buries Harrow’s face in the crook of Harrow’s elbow and remains like that long after her tremors and stifled gasps subside.

Ianthe would be the last to deny her own formidable talent, but today in particular could not possibly have been _that_ good. She knows this because she had intentionally avoided doing anything remotely _interesting_ ; show her hand too soon and it would leave too little to the imagination, or, more likely, scare Gideon away entirely. A little biting, scratching, hair-pulling, a judiciously placed stabbing or two as foreplay; that was all healthy and normal. Gideon had certainly responded favorably to such techniques during these past weeks. But as the autodoor to Ianthe’s bedroom had snapped mechanically shut behind her, a skittish tension had materialized around Gideon’s eyes. The emotion was so gauchely readable it made Ianthe want to cringe, and had certainly made her reassess. The innumerable hours Harrow’s mimetic muscles had spent producing this exact ‘caged animal’ expression, even in just the time Ianthe had known her, must have been making it impossible for poor, guileless Gideon to obscure her very real apprehension. Ultimately, for all her bombast, the girl had still been raised by nuns. And bone-nuns had to be more ascetic than average, if Harrow’s almost comical levels of discomfort with both flesh-magic and her own basic corporeality had been any indication.

All that went to say, Ianthe had not indulged herself. Instead she had been clinically focused on reinforcing Gideon’s associations between ‘capitulation’ and ‘reward’ before she could change her mind and bolt. So no, Harrow’s body is _not_ now short-circuited from a perfunctory finger bang that implausibly morphed into some life-changing experience. No. Gideon must be...hiding.

Abruptly, Ianthe rises from her perch on the edge of the mattress, and takes a few strides away to resettle herself in the functional metal seat she had appropriated for her quarters from the cruiser’s mess hall. She turns herself to face the bed, interlacing her fingers, ignoring the way the slight tackiness of Harrow’s discharge on her left hand catches against the chilly metal of her right, ignoring the way this stokes the low heat that has been lingering unsatisfied in her own gut. Harrow’s body doesn’t even twitch at Ianthe’s absence.

Had she been asked beforehand, Ianthe would have thought it no question that she would appreciate Gideon’s courtesy in obscuring her face. How _thoughtful_ to conceal those garish yellow irises so Ianthe could languish uninterrupted in the fantasy of Harrow-the real Harrow-finally in her bed. Or rather, because specificity is key here, the fantasy of Harrow; collapsed in her bed, pliant and vulnerable after pleading for Ianthe’s touch. This is an important distinction from Harrow; barricaded by pillows into the far corner of Ianthe’s luxurious bed back on the Mithraeum, restive and jumpy at the barest brush of a wrist.

This entire scene - a simulacrum of the intimacy she had coveted with Harrow, and simultaneously; loyal, trenchant, _pigheaded_ Gideon finally conceding defeat - should be the sweetest ambrosia, or at the very least should incite some small thrill, should temporarily stave off Ianthe’s listlessness. She’s shocked at the sour taste that lingers in her mouth instead. It doesn’t become any sweeter as she sits, as she watches tense, abortive inhales and exhales chase the shadows created by the cabin’s harsh artificial illumination back and forth in small ripples across Harrow’s prone form.

Gideon had insisted on Harrow’s body remaining fully clothed, a pretense so absurd in light of the situation that Ianthe had struggled to suppress a laughing fit when Gideon first said it. But Ianthe had (mostly) been circumspect with her amusement, and soon after when Harrow - no, correction, when _Gideon_ was stumbling over her tongue, saying (in that voice with such a familiar timbre but completely unfamiliar heat) “please,” and “god,” and “I need-,” Ianthe had simply slipped the loose black trousers down around Harrow’s bony knees and let Gideon keep her tunic and robe. Coming from a life as a princess of Ida, Ianthe is, above all things, self-possessed; she isn’t about to lose her hold on the chivalrous little cavalier now by tightening her grip too hastily. After all, without Gideon to toy with, how else is she supposed to pass the time on this lonely cruiser limping along through an even lonelier corner of space?

Ah, perhaps this is the source of her malaise? The fact that today has been unexpectedly, bafflingly easy and yet paradoxically...it is clear that Gideon **still isn’t entirely in her thrall**. Ianthe is not exactly sure how she knows this, but as soon as she lands on the thought it has settled in her stomach with the weight of absolute certainty.

Even with the past several weeks, with all the progress Ianthe has made wearing Gideon down, today is an oddly _abrupt_ disintegration. Since Ianthe baited her trap in that early morning encounter, the cavalier has vacillated between staying in her cabin and lackadaisically wandering the cruiser’s corridors, obviously hoping for Ianthe’s attention but unwilling to acknowledge the fact. (So of course Ianthe has made it a point to avoid her until the exact moment when Gideon seems to give up and decide to just get food or exercise or go back to bed or whatever it is beef-brained cavaliers do for ‘intellectual’ enrichment). Gideon out and about in the ship is a stark departure from her _TEDIOUS_ nearly month-long stint of self-imposed isolation. But even recent fraught interactions still don’t quite explain why Gideon came to her today, of all days. And as much as Ianthe prides herself on the precise calculations she put into crafting the trail of crumbs leading up to her cabin door, until this afternoon she had thought she was still weeks, maybe months away from breaking Gideon fully. Unless...it was something else outside Ianthe’s control that finally struck the poor cav at just the right fracture point?

She will take this as a boon, Ianthe decides. In another life she might have already conquered and congratulated herself, but once that rush dissipated where would she be? Sleeping with pretend-Harrow, sure, but the novelty would wear off eventually and ultimately she would end where she started, bored again with no clear objective to pursue. A challenge is not a failure.

Harrow’s body stirs on the bed, and Ianthe uncrosses her legs, sits upright in her chair, curious. Harrow’s head still does not turn to face her, but skinny, birdlike wrists reach down to roughly cinch the loose black pants back into place around her waist, and she sits up, tension radiating so obviously down her back that Ianthe can perceive it through her clothing, traces it with relish from where Harrow’s levator scapulae attach at the base of her skull, all the way to the termination of her lower latissimus dorsi. Her dark hair falls in protective loops and tangles around her face. Really, Ianthe thinks, this is the best performance so far; seeing the cavalier’s body language right now she is _almost_ convinced it’s actually Harrow in there again.

“Ah, nice of you to finally join us,” Ianthe says, “for a moment there I wasn’t sure if you’d actually died again, or if you were just trying to live out some little necrophilia fantasy. I've heard those are all the rage with shadow cultists these days.”

“This was a one time thing,” Gideon says slowly, seeming to speak as much to herself as anyone else. She stands from the bed, shifting her hips a little, exploratorily (although she can’t possibly be sore, lyctoral healing being what it is), still hiding her eyes behind that convenient curtain of hair.

“Of course it was,” says Ianthe, unconcerned. 

Seemingly satisfied with the flimsy excuse for a boundary she’s just set, Gideon heads for the door. Her strides are oddly large at first and she stumbles ever so slightly, as if she’s forgotten, even after five months in this body, exactly how long her legs are. Gideon reaches the auto door and waits only long enough for it to slide halfway open. As Harrow’s body is squeezing out into the corridor, Ianthe adds casually “See you soon,” and watches Harrow’s shoulders go all the way up to her ears before the partition snaps shut behind her. 

Well then. Ianthe suddenly feels much better, the sour taste clearing from her palate. She allows herself a small, genuine smile as she slouches back in the chair, spreads her legs and hikes up her own skirt. Looks like the hunt is still on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I original? (Yeah) Am I sexual? (Yeah) Am I everything you need, you better rock your body right; **Ianthe's back, ALRIGHT!**
> 
> Much as I adore and strongly identify with Gideon, I **really** missed writing Ianthe. She's just so much _fun_.
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated. <3


	2. I wanna be your honey, so let's go tell your daddy and mommy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But-” says Ianthe before she can help it. She glances down at the clenched phalanges of her golden construct hand ( **Harrow’s** construct), finding herself genuinely distressed, “We won’t rendezvous with the cohort for several years yet, and that’s only if we remain under Blood of Eden’s radar. Harrow is-”_  
>  _“Perfectly hale and comfortable right where she is,” interrupts God, his tone soothing. Ianthe looks up to find his inky black eyes fixed on her, assessing. She shifts in her seat. Perhaps she has been a little sloppy, a little over-impetuous with the liberties she takes around him. “You’re not in trouble, Ianthe. I know how you must miss your sister. But she made her own bed and it’s only fair if she has to lie in it a while longer, don’t you think?”_

“Ianthe,” says God.

“My Lord,” says Ianthe, prim.

God sighs, and brings a hand up to aggressively massage the bridge of his nose, as if it’s personally offended him. “I just...I hope you two aren’t going to be beefing like this _indefinitely_ , is all.”

“Oh, certainly not,” says Ianthe earnestly, only allowing herself the barest hint of smugness.

“Good. Good, that’s good. Of course I don’t intend to be a helicopter parent, I just don’t think I could bear another Mercy and Augustine situation. Puts altogether too much strain on public morale.” Ianthe fights the peevish temptation to ask ‘ _what public_ ’. The emperor of the nine houses had not employed much finesse when he haphazardly flailed his way out of the river (obligingly snatching Gideon and Pyrrha en route _after nearly neglecting to take **Ianthe** with him_ \- which, she admits, had stung. Particularly after her not-insignificant decision to proactively gamble in God’s favor when she could have more easily just waited for the match to end and thrown in her lot with whoever remained standing. It’s fine though, she’s accustomed to not being the favorite child). 

In his ineffable discernment, their great resurrector had simply aimed them randomly at the first spacefaring vessel to register in his awareness, and flung them out of the river towards it...landing them smack dab in the middle of Blood of Eden territory. Needless to say, they are many lightyears from the nearest cohort-secured obelisk, even if they could scrounge up the necessary supplies to create a stele onboard. And the emperor won’t risk unseating his remaining two non-necromantic cavaliers from their lyctoral vessels by dipping them all back into the river to travel home. 

At least, that’s his openly stated reason; Ianthe has her suspicions about some longer game. Then again, sometimes she also wonders whether Teacher hadn’t made the trip back from the edge of the Stoma with his faculties entirely...intact. The man who became God continues, just as Ianthe is busying her smart mouth with another polite sip of tea before she says anything indiscreet, “When we eventually rejoin the cohort, I _will_ require the two of you to come together without friction.”

Ianthe has to draw on years of stringently practiced court etiquette to prevent herself from violently spitting her drink. Does he know? In a heroic effort, she swallows her tea without choking. And then computes a step farther. “Sorry, Teacher, I don’t intend this to sound flip, but do you mean me and… _Gideon_?”

“Who else is there?” He says quizzically, then, mostly as a mumble to himself, leaning back in his seat, “trust me to begin a full on recruitment process with barely a skeleton staff, and somehow end it with almost fifty percent fewer personnel than I had at the outset.”

“But-” says Ianthe before she can help it. She glances down at the clenched phalanges of her golden construct hand ( **Harrow’s** construct), finding herself genuinely distressed, “We won’t rendezvous with the cohort for several years yet, and that’s only if we remain under Blood of Eden’s radar. Harrow is-”

“Perfectly hale and comfortable right where she is,” interrupts God, his tone soothing. Ianthe looks up to find his inky black eyes fixed on her, assessing. She shifts in her seat. Perhaps she has been a little sloppy, a little over-impetuous with the liberties she takes around him. He’s a very good actor. Ten thousand years can do that to a person, she supposes. “You’re not in trouble, Ianthe. I know how you miss your sister,” She doubts if he actually does, either Harrow or her _real_ sister. “But she made her own bed and it’s only fair if she has to lie in it a while longer, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Teacher,” Ianthe says. It comes out close to a whisper.

“Wonderful. And please try not to be too sad. When the time is right I’ll sort this entire ‘oh my god and they were roommates’ business out, in a way that suits them both, I promise. Okay?”

“Okay, Teacher.”

“Listen, you’re making me feel like I’ve kicked a puppy. You and my daughter with the waterworks. Ianthe, I’m only doing what’s best. Right now, it’s safest _for everyone_ if you girls all just stay put where I can keep an eye on you. Please tell me you understand?”

“I understand, Teacher.”

“Is there an echo in here?”

Ianthe looks up from her hands, (her skin covered knuckles are strangling her mug, white with tension, and she has been staring _again_. When had that become such a habit?). She forces a wry smile, allowing only enough acrid flavor to seep in so that the expression will appear believable on her face. “I understand what you’re saying, Teacher, and I think you’ll find Gideon a lot more sociable in the near future. We’ve recently overcome a certain hurdle in our relationship and are finally working some things out,” Ianthe tucks an undisciplined strand of hair back behind her ear, discreetly searching for any flicker of...anything, in his face. If he did know - and certainly he must at least guess, especially after that group dinner a while back when Ianthe had laid her cards publicly on (under) the table to harass Gideon - would he even care? “I am sorry, though, if our little squabble cost you any peace of mind these past months, Lord.” 

“Oh, it didn’t, and anyway a little lost sleep is just part of the job description when you’re responsible for an entire solar system. Although I will say, our last few hours on the Mithraeum were so fraught with reveals I worried I might be on Jerry Springer.”

“You...on - what?” Ianthe is lost.

“Never mind, never mind,” Teacher waves her confusion away with a loose flap of his hand, “before your time.”

Ianthe waits, torn between making her escape or trying to glean more details about whatever it is the father of all necromancy has planned for Harrow’s soul. He decides for her, standing awkwardly and scooping up his plain, still mostly full mug (turns out BoE doesn’t consider fancy saucers and china tea sets regulation stock for their cruisers).

“Well, it’s my pumpkin hour and I must leave the ball. I do truly appreciate you being so understanding about all this. You’re quite mature for your age.” The emperor of the nine houses turns to go and Ianthe wrinkles her nose. She hadn’t watched Mercymorn’s heart explode like a confetti popper just to be condescended to like this again. Just as he reaches the threshold of the mess hall doors, he pauses, not looking back but obviously considering his words; he isn’t done.

“You know Ianthe, sometimes you _really_ remind me of myself.”

Somehow, she does not think he means it as a compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear yahoo answers, I accidentally an entire plot, is this dangerous?


	3. clear the bed to lie on, darlin'-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Gideon has conceded to restart their weekly sparring sessions, which Ianthe is secretly grateful for. Right now, they’re traversing one of the claustrophobic, snaking corridors of the cruiser, working on their close-quarters combat, and Ianthe is discovering just how _badly_ she has been needing to blow off some steam. She relishes the heft of the trident knife in her hand, and considers her opponent.
>> 
>> “What, is there something on my face?” Little puffs of condensation chase the words out of Harrow’s mouth.
>> 
>> “Am I not allowed to look at my meal before I eat?” Ianthe wonders.
>> 
>> “You third house creeps really aren’t even the teeny-weeniest bit ashamed of your cannibalism kink, are you?” Gideon says. “Look, as a mostly dignity-free type of person myself, I think you could _really_ benefit from at least a small serving of embarrassment. If you can’t make your own, store bought is fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: [Ianthe is the shit, yeah she's super lit, and since John didn't buy her what she wants, she's gonna throw a fit.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeRMzoA-XQI) Those tags up there that say 'canon-typical violence' and 'mild gore' start now.
> 
> Chapter title actually from the song **Three Wishes** , also from the album Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge by **The Pierces**

Although Gideon has maintained a certain oblique distance since she first briefly warmed Ianthe’s bed last week, some of her defenses have also been lowered. Not enthusiastically disarmed, certainly, more...reluctantly discarded as lost causes. Functionally, it’s all the same to Ianthe.

Gideon has conceded to restart their weekly sparring sessions, which Ianthe is secretly grateful for. Even if her choice to throw down the gauntlet several months ago during their fencing match _had_ worked, it had still taken its sweet time to do so. She has been excruciatingly bored, unable to alleviate the tedium except on the rare occasions Gideon ventured out of her hermitage. Pyrrha is the only other person on the ship Ianthe might hypothetically socialize with, and she puts Ianthe badly on edge in a way that is neither intriguing nor titillating. Ianthe had once made the mistake, when they had all been packed like sardines into that first tiny shuttle and she was on her last remaining nerve, of venting to Gideon about it. She had quipped that Pyrrha’s misanthropy had metastasized into something _so_ clinically severe, the long dead cavalier had probably stooped to keeping a chunk of dead herald hidden on the saint of Duty’s person, just to repel anyone who might attempt conversation.

Gideon had given Ianthe this uncharacteristically shrewd look, and shrugged, saying “I don’t know, I don’t really think she’s that scary,” and then, after a beat spent examining Ianthe’s face, had broken eye contact and given her an out so thin it could only be interpreted as throwing her a bone out of pity. “Maybe you’re, like, allergic to the fragrance in her deodorant.” As if _Gideon_ were in a position to pity _Ianthe_. (As if there had been any deodorant to find in the shuttle’s infinitesimal storage compartments. Thank the emperor undying for getting them aboard this tolerably-sized, passably-provisioned cruiser before they all tried to kill one another, **_again_**. Even if the ship’s broken climate controls mean Ianthe is constantly freezing.) 

Ianthe had learned her lesson. Even if Gideon’s out of character discernment had most likely been a fluke, better safe than sorry; she won’t be repeating any such missteps within earshot of Harrow’s body. When improperly concealed, any vulnerability becomes an invitation to your adversaries. Still, she’s glad they’ve returned to a regular training schedule. A reliable outlet for tension is required in order to maintain your poker face while navigating a treacherous web of 10,000 year old intrigue.

Right now, they’re traversing one of the claustrophobic, snaking corridors of the cruiser, working on their close-quarters combat, and Ianthe is discovering just how badly she needs to blow off some steam. Her left sleeve is already torn and stained with dried blood where Gideon had severed Ianthe's forearm almost entirely off (very derivative of the Cavalier) just a few minutes ago. The exposed skin of her arm is now unblemished and covered in gooseflesh, from both the icy chill of the recycled air, and the electric sizzle of adrenaline.

Ianthe has switched her off-hand blade to her right, having discarded her rapier several meters back for its uselessness in a tight space against Gideon’s utilitarian fighting style. Gideon is also down to a dagger she had scrounged up from the cruiser’s armory, and although it’s obvious the weapon is new to her, she’s still infuriatingly good. Had she been a stranger, Ianthe would have had real difficulty catching that extra split second between movements when Gideon pauses to think. But Ianthe is no stranger to Gideon’s movement, in fact she knows it _intimately_. Sure, she probably couldn’t beat Gideon in a physical fight in open surroundings, but perhaps terrain will give her the upper hand today. Ianthe relishes the heft of the trident knife in her hand, and considers her opponent.

“What, is there something on my face?” Little puffs of condensation chase the words out of Harrow’s mouth.

“Am I not allowed to look at my meal before I eat?” Ianthe says. Gideon has positioned Harrow’s body diagonal to Ianthe, giving her a slimmer target to strike at. Harrow’s free hand is braced against the wall to her right, measuring the limited space she might have to step backward, poised to help propel her in any direction. Ianthe wonders, hopes Gideon has not noticed the inward slope of the wall just past her, where it frames the intersection of their corridor with another open passage. 

“You third house creeps really aren’t even the teeny-weeniest bit ashamed of your cannibalism kink, are you?” Gideon’s posture is extremely casual. The cavalier makes a poor liar in every context _except_ combat situations, Ianthe has to grudgingly concede - she’s rarely seen a feint so convincing as Gideon’s.

“Life gets much more interesting once you misplace your shame.”

“Interesting isn’t the same as good,” Gideon says flatly.

“Isn’t it?” wonders Ianthe.

“Look, as a mostly dignity-free type of person myself,” Gideon says, “I think you could _really_ benefit from at least a small serving of embarrassment. If you can’t make your own, store bought is fine.”

“Now Griddle, there’s no need to sound so critical when you’re **personally** reaping the rewards of my philosophy,” Ianthe says, and lunges. She aims just barely to Gideon’s left, enjoying the way their proximity emphasizes how much taller she is than Harrow. She twists as if preparing a strike from her right hip - leaving her left side wide open. Gideon doesn’t fall for the obvious bait, but Ianthe didn’t expect her to; instead, Gideon dances back parallel to the wall, closer to the junction of the two hallways. Perfect.

“How’s that?” Gideon’s golden eyes are narrowed, but the expression on Harrow’s angular face is more anticipatory than anything else. She looks hungry. Ianthe shuffles to the side and Gideon responds in turn. Ianthe can tell she’s resisting the urge to get complacent after the hit she’d landed on Ianthe earlier. Luckily for Ianthe, Gideon seems more focused on this than on how Ianthe has maneuvered them both; Gideon’s back is now to open passageway, rather than solid wall.

“Because, you poor, young, dead thing,” Ianthe shifts her weight, readying herself as discreetly as possible. “My shamelessness is solely to thank for the most recent entry in your snack-sized inventory of lifetime accomplishments. You know, the one that reads; ‘finally orgasmed with another woman’s fingers inside me. Probably cried a little’.”

It’s a stab in the dark, Gideon could have gotten up to any number of things at Canaan house, or even before, if there had been any girls more amenable than Harrow on that cold, dark backwater she’s from. But it’s immediately obvious that Ianthe’s guessed correctly, from the way the Harrow’s skin flushes dark under the face paint, colour spilling all the way down her neck.

Gideon opens Harrow’s mouth, doesn’t seem to know what exactly to say, and just as she’s drawing in a breath of the frigid air, Ianthe strikes. This time, she comes at Gideon head-on, a move that would be stupid, would make Ianthe liable to get trapped between Gideon and the wall, or turn herself into a helpless kebab on Gideon’s dagger _if_ the cav had had a hard surface behind herself to rappel off of. Gideon twists Harrow’s torso out of the way of Ianthe’s thrust, brings up her knife, lightning quick. Ianthe hits her full force, letting Gideon’s blade slide home between her fifth and sixth ribs, the sharp edge smoothly parting serratus and intercostal muscle. She feels the moment her lung is punctured, feels it collapse wetly in on itself. The impact of Ianthe’s charge carries Harrow’s body backward and without missing a beat Gideon reaches behind to brace against the wall, presumably so she can swap their positions and pin Ianthe to the metal panels with her dagger, an insect in a collection.

Except there’s no wall behind her, only empty corridor. Ianthe bears down and Gideon stumbles backward, caught in her own tilt and rotation, right arm trapped too tightly between their bodies for Gideon to reclaim her dagger. She raises her free hand, seemingly planning to throw a punch instead, but she’s still just a touch slower than usual, discombobulated. Pressing her advantage, Ianthe repositions the weapon in her fist, where it extends behind Harrow’s back (the intended destination of that thrust Gideon had dodged so easily). She brings the knife down with a satisfying crunch into the middle of Harrow’s thoracic spine. She is perhaps a bit sloppy in her execution, primarily focused on aligning the blade with cartilaginous disc instead of bone, and aiming low enough not to be stopped by a stray shoulder blade. But she doesn’t need perfect anatomical precision for this and Mercy isn’t around to act all judgy, anyway. Gideon’s stumble has become a full on backwards topple, the cavalier having made a little winded ‘oomph’ sound and tensed up instinctively when the cold metal breached her back; she knows Ianthe has aimed somewhere important. Ianthe does nothing to slow their descent, just braces her bare left forearm across the front of Harrow’s throat, and depresses the mechanism on the trident knife.

They hit the ground, Harrow’s small, pointy body a disagreeable cushion under Ianthe, only a split second after the two adjoining blades spring free of the center of the weapon, decisively severing Harrow’s spinal column.

Gideon doesn’t make a sound, most likely because Ianthe landing heavily on her forearm has crushed Harrow’s trachea, but in their position on the floor, limbs entangled, Ianthe can distinguish the instant Harrow’s legs go limp. 

A stinging sense of satisfaction suffuses Ianthe. It burns in her throat, reminding her of the cheap cooking liquor she and Corona used to steal from the palace kitchens as teens, when it had still been just the two of them versus everyone else. It’s nice, having Harrow’s warm body under her again, so soon after last time - she’ll have to take care not to let herself become dependent on the feeling. Ianthe grits her teeth, and twists her torso just enough to dislodge Gideon’s now-loose grip on the dagger embedding in her own ribcage. Gideon remains still and silent under her, so she lets go of the trident knife, extricates her skeleton hand from beneath Harrow’s back and, grasping the hilt, pulls Gideon’s weapon from her body. On its way out it makes this coy little sucking sound that Ianthe finds weirdly comedic. Being one of the emperor’s hands and gestures is such a visceral experience, in the most literal sense of the word _viscera_.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm splitting this chapter into two parts because it got too long and that upset me. Place your bets on your chosen fighter now!


	4. -make a mess of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “You’re beginning to bore me, Griddle,” says Ianthe, lessening the pressure of her forearm slightly and watching with interest as the flesh of Harrow’s throat - already puce with bruising - pops back into place like an inflating balloon. “When will you cease to think like a breakable human cavalier, and start fighting me like a _Lyctor_.” She lets her gaze wander up to Harrow’s face. Gideon’s amber eyes are incandescent with rage, Harrow’s blood-flecked lips contorted into a silent snarl, every last drop of shivering malice in that tiny body fixed on Ianthe like a promise. She almost preens - she could really get used to the attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: even more canon typical violence and gore. 
> 
> scene continues directly from previous chapter.

“You’re beginning to bore me, Griddle,” says Ianthe, lessening the pressure of her forearm slightly and watching with interest as the flesh of Harrow’s throat - already puce with bruising - pops back into place like an inflating balloon. “When will you cease to think like a breakable human cavalier, and start fighting me like a _Lyctor_.” She lets her gaze wander up to Harrow’s face. Gideon’s amber eyes are incandescent with rage, Harrow’s blood-flecked lips contorted into a silent snarl, every last drop of shivering malice in that tiny body fixed on Ianthe like a promise. She almost preens - she could really get used to the attention.

Gideon swallows, the sound at once both wet and crackling, grits out, “Not damaging. Harrow. You should. N’t either.”

Ianthe suddenly feels the oppressive cold of the ship tangling thickly around her limbs like gravity, like a weighted net dragging her beneath the surface of an icy lake. 

She rolls her eyes hard enough it feels like a headache for a second, groans loudly in affected annoyance; the sound is obscene in the empty constricting corridor.

“All I ever hear is ‘when Harrow gets back, this’, ‘when Harrow is here, that’. I find I’m tiring of your sanctimonious yapping.” Gideon’s breath is a labored rattle beneath her elbow. Ianthe leans in harder and continues, picking up steam, “Where the **hell** do you get off, playing the ‘chivalrous knight’, acting as though you have _the right_ to say what I should or shouldn’t do with Harry’s body?” Ianthe laughs. There is no humor in it. “The sheer hypocrisy!” 

Gideon manages a strangled grunt of protest. It makes Ianthe livid. “What, did you already forget how you crawled your way to my cabin _only eight days ago_ , how you got on all fours on my bed, how you spread Harrow’s legs and _begged_ me for it?” She spits this last into Gideon’s face, enjoying the way the cavalier flinches, struggles to turn her head aside slightly. “Oh, _now_ you can’t look me in the eye? What happened to that lecture about ‘embracing my shame’?” 

Disappointingly, Gideon doesn’t react to this. In fact, the top half of Harrow’s body has gone just as cut-strings limp as it is below the knife in her spine. Ianthe makes herself let up with her forearm, allowing the cav to actually breathe. For some reason she _needs_ someone, Gideon, whoever, to hear this next bit. “Next match, fight me like a real woman, because there’s no point in protecting Harry’s body. Even if tomorrow you manage some injury grievous enough that it’s slow to heal, Harry won’t find out. She’s not coming back _any_ time soon, she won’t be here, not for years-”

Abruptly, Ianthe can’t recall what she was going to say next. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her last words hang in the air between them, like an admission of- of what, Ianthe doesn’t know. It’s not like it’s _her_ fault that God has explicitly said he intends to keep Gideon in Harrow’s place for the entire journey back to the cohort, after, indefinitely. It’s not her fault. In fact, if anything, it’s Gideon’s. Gideon, who the king undying is so deeply invested in; special, faithful, martyred, perfect Gideon-

Ianthe rears back from the sudden agony in her face - the movement is pure instinct, she hasn’t opened her eyes but her vision is a searing kaleidoscope of light and pressure, and she thinks _fuckfuckFUCK_ as she feels Harrow’s sharp fingernails anchor themselves deep in the back of her scalp. Harrow’s thumb is on her temple now so _why can she still not see a thing_ \- Ianthe has not been paying proper attention. Gideon, oxygen-deprived, windpipe half-collapsed, numb and unable to control her lower body, has still managed enough energy to reach up and shove both pointy-nailed thumbs deep into Ianthe’s eye sockets. 

Now, the stubborn bitch is riding along on Ianthe’s escape attempt, using the hand clamped around Ianthe’s skull to lift her shoulders, fold her half-lifeless torso forward. Gideon’s other hand is completely gone from Ianthe’s face, but where-

Ianthe realizes vaguely that she’s yelling, has her flesh hand clamped over where her eyes were - no, where they are again. She reigns her voice in with some difficulty, pulls her fingers away roughly, tries not to think about the viscous wetness on her cheeks - a greater volume than tears alone could account for. There’s no point in considering the details of what just happened when her vision is already beginning to return. How great it is to be a Lyctor. 

She blinks, light and shape slowly coalescing into focus as optic nerves finish recalibrating with repaired corneas. Harrow’s sour, heart-shaped face is screwed up in concentration and Ianthe realizes with dawning horror that the free hand Gideon’s not using to hang onto Ianthe’s neck is behind her, determinedly working the trident knife out of Harrow’s spine.

Ianthe darts forward, reaching desperately for Harrow’s arm, but she’s too late. Even as Harrow’s shoulders hit the metal plating beneath them (landing in a tacky pool of Harrow’s blood, already thickened by the cold), Gideon is bracing her forearm across Ianthe’s sternum, bending a knee under them both. The cavalier presses her foot into the floor and levers her hip upward, throwing Ianthe off and to the side.

Ianthe rolls with it, realizing that she’s lost hold of Gideon’s dagger in the scuffle. She curls inward, moving to collect her legs under her, but she hits the base of the corridor wall, there’s no space- … And Gideon is on top of her now, bony knees digging into her kidneys, one hand a hydraulic press on the side of her face, jamming her other ear into the floor with painful force. With Harrow’s other hand, Gideon is holding the tip of Ianthe’s own blade just beneath her occipital bone, angled unerringly toward the foramen magnum where her central nervous system snakes into her cranial cavity. 

Impressive. Gideon knows her anatomy. A nice assertive thrust right now would bisect Ianthe’s brain, myelencephalon up: if Ianthe adhered to their ‘no necromancy’ training bout rules, it could be a legitimate threat to her life. Ianthe lies very still, breathing conservatively through her nose, intrigued by the perverse heat that curls between her legs when she imagines Gideon might actually do it. Beneath the cover of her skin, she carefully pads out her meninges, reinforces her top cervical vertebrae, weaves a loose spiderweb of elastic tendon criss-crossing the opening at the base of her skull and calcifies it for extra stability, as close to fully closing the hole as she can get without pinching her own brainstem. She listens as Harrow’s breathing subsides from ragged hisses of pain to a slow, intentional rhythm. And she waits for Gideon to speak.

Eventually, Gideon says “Somehow, I’m getting this heavy vibe that says you know some things I don’t.”

Ianthe sighs, careful not to move with the exhale. “Yes, obviously. If you demand I list those things in their entirety before you’ll stop sitting on me, we will be here for _ever_. Specify?”

“You know something about Harrow coming back or...not coming back. Did you have a research breakthrough and just neglect to tell me?” The knife presses harder. Ahh, now Ianthe understands.

“If what you’re trying to say is; ‘ooh Ianthe, you devastating genius, did you figure out how to bring Harry back weeks ago, but then decide to keep quiet just so you could get me into bed for what was, frankly, a _profoundly lackluster_ three minutes,’ the answer is obviously **no**. I still haven’t discovered our little Harrowhark’s hiding spot.” 

The pressure of the knife lets up somewhat. Gideon _believes_ her. And why shouldn’t she, Ianthe **is** telling the truth. If she ever finds a way to retrieve Harrow herself, she will do it in an instant, even if it means sacrificing a chance to get her kicks at Gideon’s expense. Obviously. Because Gideon is nothing more than a temporary stand in for Harrow. Right?

Ianthe wants to shake her head, tries to blink the thoughts away instead. Gideon seems mollified, if only partly. “If it’s not your research, what is it?”

“I’m surprised you have to ask. Have you been standing our divine emperor up on your incestuous little dates? I assumed you had a weekly appointment where his holiness disclosed juicy family secrets and the two of you slow danced.” Ianthe can practically hear the gears in Gideon’s head turning at that. The knife comes entirely away from the back of her neck and Ianthe doesn’t bother to conceal her sigh of relief. Instead, she takes the opportunity to throw an elbow backward as violently as she can, aiming for Harrow’s solar plexus. It doesn’t hit as hard as Ianthe wishes, but Gideon does let out a soft grunt and scuttle backward, taking her weight off Ianthe’s back. Ianthe collects her feet under her, assuming a wary crouch and staring Gideon down. 

The cavalier sniffs petulantly, wrinkling Harrow’s nose. “First, it’s like...enough layers of wrong to make an entire onion of fucked-up-ness, for you to imply I would be into some decrepit 10,000 year old **DUDE** , who _also_ happened to contribute half my genetic makeup.”

There’s something lighter about the atmosphere between them now. It still sizzles with aggression but Ianthe’s nausea (which she realizes she has been feeling since just after Gideon guilt tripped her over ‘damaging Harrow’) is dissipating.

“You’re the one who was so desperate to convince me about the depth of Harry’s attraction to her sepulchral love interest. Plus, you had such an _obvious_ crush on Cytherea. Don’t blame me for concluding that all ninth house girls must like their romances ancient and inhuman,” Ianthe searches her peripheral vision while she talks. She locates Gideon’s abandoned dagger - where it had disappointingly come to rest on the far side of Harrow’s body. 

The cav begins, “So what did he-” and Ianthe cuts her off, feeling the words jumping from her lips like fermented sugar-wine chasing its cork out of the bottle; “He plans to appoint you to an official role in the cohort.”

“But we won’t even be back to cohort space for-”

“Years, yes.” 

“And-”

“And he forbade me from retrieving her myself. He said he’ll sort it out when he’s good and ready.”

There is a long pause. Then Gideon snorts. Ianthe feels a twisted sort of fondness at the sound. “Well,” says Gideon, deliberately turning her back to Ianthe to stand, brushing imaginary dust and very real flakes of dried blood off of Harrow’s trousers. It’s an obvious ceasefire, but she’s not sure why Gideon’s ending the fight _now_ , when Ianthe is demonstrably off-balance and vulnerable (evidenced by her candidly answering questions without a single attempt at misdirection).

Harrow’s shirt hangs off her back in awkward loops, torn and bloodied by all that business with the trident knife. Ianthe is hungry for the view of smooth olive skin she catches through the lacerated fabric. And suddenly it hits her; she may have just ruined it. Eight days into this tryst she’s spent so long tenderly coaxing into existence, and Gideon may have just slipped through her fingers. It’s one thing for the cav to avoid or attack, but if she becomes indifferent - if she pities Ianthe, sees her as less than a real threat, less than an equal - it will leave Ianthe no handhold to grasp.

But then Gideon turns and extends a hand to help Ianthe off the ground, and the look in her eyes is one of obstinate, painful determination. Ianthe thought she was sick of seeing that expression, but maybe not. Gideon says, “We can’t just let him have his way, can we?”

Ianthe smiles. “I suppose not,” she says, and accepts the offered hand, rising to her feet and crowding into Gideon’s space in the same movement. The sour scent of Harrow’s stress-sweat is inescapable but Ianthe finds she doesn’t mind. Gideon’s handhold has morphed into a restraining grip on her wrist, so Ianthe brings her other arm up to rest on Harrow’s shoulders, curving tenderly across her upper back; a relaxed embrace. She leans down, murmurs into the damp skin of Harrow’s neck just beneath her ear, “Before we get ahead of ourselves though - you’re asking me to assist you in directly disobeying god’s orders: we should discuss how you can make the risk worth my while.” 

It’s such a campy, villainous statement that Ianthe is caught between being amused or embarrassed at herself, but then Gideon makes a small “Hngh” and her fingers tighten around Ianthe’s wrist. Encouraged, Ianthe scrapes the cavalier’s neck gently with her teeth, winds her fingers up into Harrow’s hair. Gideon shifts her shoulders slightly, tilting her head obligingly to the side. Ianthe opens her mouth to speak or taste, she’s not sure which-

And abruptly folds in half, teeth clacking painfully when her chin glances off Harrow’s shoulder, the air violently evacuating her lungs as Harrow’s other fist **slams** into Ianthe’s abdomen.

“That’s for my spine, you _literally back-stabbing_ cunt,” says Gideon. If Ianthe had the breath to laugh she would. Gideon is finally learning how to flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the word 'Myelencephalon'; because I'm determined to find any use I can for all those hours I spent breathing formaldehyde and dissecting brains in college.


	5. some people say I want you for your money-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Oh, right now, really?” says Ianthe. She has _no_ actual intention of turning down any advance Gideon manages to make, but she can’t pass up an opportunity to make things more difficult for the cavalier. “I’m busy trying to solve our little problem, I’m not interested in playing hide the cucumber with you.” Fifty percent of that statement is true. “Unless there’s some actual emergency you need me for?”
>> 
>> Gideon looks down at Harrow’s hands, clasped awkwardly in front of her. The supplicating posture is clearly a foreign one for the cavalier. For a long, uneasy moment, she hovers in Ianthe’s corridor, shifting her weight back and forth between feet. Finally, she says; “I had this dream.”

“Oh, right now, really?” says Ianthe. She has _no_ actual intention of turning down any advance Gideon manages to make, but she can’t pass up an opportunity to make things more difficult for the cavalier. Schadenfreude is one of the principal joys of Ianthe’s life, and Ninth girls in particular squirm so _prettily_. She crosses her arms under her breasts and leans huffily into the jamb of her autodoor. Gideon’s eyes flick down for a brief, involuntary second before returning to Ianthe’s face and she congratulates herself on having been too lazy to scrounge up a clean bra from her laundry this morning. She gestures with her chin back into the cabin behind her where thick stacks of flimsy (half-covered in her courtly-formal cursive already) occupy the entire surface of her small table. “I’m busy trying to solve our little problem. I’m not interested in playing hide the cucumber with you.” Fifty percent of that statement is true. “Unless there’s some actual emergency you need me for?”

Gideon looks down at Harrow’s hands, clasped awkwardly in front of her. The supplicating posture is clearly a foreign one for the cavalier. Harrow’s dark hair is a tangled scribble around her head. Despite her strikingly messy (even for Gideon) skull paint, the bags under her eyes are thrown into relief by the overhead habitation lights, and her black robes are bundled haphazardly about thin shoulders, exposing a naked sliver of light brown skin on one forearm; the entire effect says she has just rolled out of bed. Gideon is shifting her weight back and forth between her feet, ill at ease. Finally, she says, “I had this dream.”

“Aww, does poor Griddle need a big, strong necromancer to tell her the night terrors aren’t real?” Ianthe coos. “Next time you’re scared at night, just use the comm like a civilized person instead of traipsing all the way over here to interrupt my research.”

“I didn’t think using any of the public channels would be...smart.” Gideon clears her throat.

“Scared you’ll get grounded if daddy catches you making booty calls?”

“I never thought **I** would be the one to say this to someone else, but can you get your mind out of the gutter for one fucking second? It’s about...“ Ianthe waits a beat. Gideon groans, scrubs a hand across Harrow’s face (further smearing the paint) and says, “Look, can I just come in?”

Ianthe thinks, _finally_ , but says long-sufferingly, “If you insist.” She angles her body in invitation but stays in the doorway, sticking her chest out a bit so that Gideon must squeeze past her to enter. Despite the cavalier’s best efforts, Harrow’s upper arm brushes against Ianthe’s breasts as she passes, which is titillating in and of itself but is made even nicer by the way Harrow’s ears darken obtrusively with a blush. Gideon keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead. She makes a move as if to sit on the bunk, then flushes slightly darker and seems to think better of it. Remembering the last time she was on that bed, perhaps? Ianthe can’t help but make a soft hum of satisfaction to herself as she turns to fully face Gideon. The instant her shoulders leave its sensor array, the door hisses closed and she reaches discreetly behind her back to enter the lock code she’d installed into the makeshift keypad.

“So what was this dream that’s got you prevaricating so suspiciously?”

Gideon slips something small, wiry and reflective from a pocket in her robes, turns it over in her hands, puts it away again. She takes a deep breath, and then, “Harrow was in it.”

Ianthe is stumped on this one. She imagines Harrowhark Nonagesimus must make appearances in the dreams (or nightmares, depending on the mood they catch her in) of most people she encounters “...and?”

“No, like, it was really her. She was there, in the flesh. Or, well, the metaphysical flesh.”

“Right. If we’re being emotionally vulnerable here, I must confess: Ever since we exhausted our entire supply of ration packs **except** for the ‘pickled-egg’ flavor, I have been having nightly visions of this meat pie I ate as a child.” 

“I’m not fucking kidding, Ianthe.”

“I’m wounded at your implication that **I** might be. That pie left an indelible mark on my soul,” Ianthe declares as she pushes herself away from the doorframe, slinkling over to shuffle through her notes. She ignores Gideon, who hovers awkwardly in the center of the small room. She’s looking for the flimsy with that promising exploratory theorem proof from this morning; it’s decent enough to merit rescuing. She’s profoundly unbothered that her remaining notes are destined to get dumped onto the floor when she bends Gideon over this desk in a minute.

“Listen,” Harrow’s voice is high and strained with tension; Gideon sounds like she’s battling the urge to scream. “I admit I have had… other types of dreams about her, okay? Ones that were definitely my imagination because they could _never_ actually happen.” 

Based on the bitter yearning in Gideon’s delivery, Ianthe has a decent idea what might have occurred in these dreams, and is irked at herself for feeling a slight twinge of envy. It’s not as though this story is _real_ , not like the two Ninth girls had had some mind-blowing conjugal reunion and purposefully neglected to loop Ianthe in on the fun. Besides, she is the obvious victor in the tangible world: Ianthe is about to get her hands on (inside) an illusion of Harrow that is more viscerally lifelike than any fantasy the amorous cavalier could cook up during REM sleep.

She is only half paying attention as Gideon soldiers on. “And I’ve had dreams that were memories of her. And plenty of dreams that feature her in roles that, you know, fit her personality, like a giant man-eating spider, or a rock you can’t get out of your boot no matter how many times you stop to shake it out. 

“This was different from any of those, okay? _I swear on my sword_ , it was different.”

The poor lonely thing. Ianthe almost feels sorry for her. 

But then the cavalier says something that makes Ianthe pause. “The setting, I knew it. Not from real life, but from when I was riding shotgun in her head; I spent easily forty percent of my time in that mausoleum.”

Usually, Gideon adamantly avoids discussing those nine months. Any scrap of insight into how Gideon experienced Harrow’s efforts to safely store her soul could lead Ianthe to a theoretically salient discovery. Ianthe wrinkles her brow, looks down and realizes she’s holding the flimsy she’d been looking for. She slides it into the storage compartment just below the lip of her desk without even reading the first line.

After Harrow had stopped her constant puking and confirmed Ianthe’s suspicions by demonstrating zero recollection of her little ginger pet, Ianthe had envisioned Gideon as something inert, packed away in the cold storage of Harrow’s hippocampus. She’d never imagined something as concrete and...ostentatious... as an entire mausoleum. Harrow’s commitment to bonely aesthetics is almost too much for Ianthe, and Ianthe is from the _Third_. 

But could Harrow’s subconscious really have maintained such a space without regularly triggering the Ninth’s draconian defensive measures against the slightest retrieval-cue? Had Harrow been _trying_ to self-flagellate by giving herself excessive brain bleeds? Or had Gideon’s containment been merely linked to Harrow’s suppressed memories, with its bulk (meta)physically located elsewhere - a buoy in the River perhaps? It _was_ the natural domain of ghosts. But the River was also _defined_ by its perpetual flux state, establishing something as conceptually static as ‘place’ in it would be, well, crazy...

Vaguely, Ianthe notes that Gideon is still talking at her, Harrow’s already shrill voice raised in screeching entreaty. “-not even a real publication! She wouldn’t independently think up the exact same fake magazine as me! I mean, knowing her, she’d rather invent a fusty six-thousand page treatise on the feng shui of bone decoration than be caught looking at titties. It’s proof, Ianthe: she IS in the same place I was. Must’ve found the copy I left when-”

Gideon’s fantasy itself suggests another interesting hypothetical. Ianthe hasn’t yet considered the possibility that Harrow (a lyctor on a temporary jaunt away from her living body) might be beholden to similar functional constraints or inhabit the same liminal spaces as Gideon (a revenant). Perhaps the angle is worth pursuing, especially given her repeated failures to locate Harrow via the distinctive thanergetic byproducts of the Lyctoral spirit magic necessary to sustain oneself in the River. By all logic, she should be producing thanergy traces in absurdly high quantities right now-

Her train of thought is rudely jolted off its track as Harrow’s amber-eyed, pointy face invades her field of vision, accompanied by wildly gesticulating hands; Ianthe only narrowly avoids having a pinky jammed up her nose. This time, unlike when Gideon first arrived to interrupt her, Ianthe doesn’t need to manufacture her pique. She grips Harrow’s thin shoulders roughly, stilling Gideon’s movement, which does nothing to slow the cavalier’s diatribe.

“-really wish I didn’t need your help for this, but Harrow certainly didn’t provide any retrieval instructions, she wouldn’t even wake up. Useless, both of you! Have you even been fucking listening to me? I’m telling you I know where she is! So let’s go get h-”

“ _Enough_ ,” Ianthe says, icy. She slaps her left hand over Harrow’s nose and mouth, and takes two forceful steps forward, maneuvering them so that she has Gideon pressed into the wall adjacent to her workspace. She’s met with uncharacteristically minimal resistance. “First, I need you to demonstrate that you remember how to shut your mouth, so I won’t have to shut it for you. Then I need-” Gideon bites her, hard. Ianthe’s hand jerks reflexively but she doesn’t lift it away, just raises her eyebrows and waits. Gideon rolls her eyes, shoulders slumping in petulant acquiescence, and Ianthe is satisfied. “As I was saying, I need you to grasp that I am a flesh magician, not a hokey Fifth house dream interpreter.” Ianthe peels her fingers back. The freshly healed epidermis of her palm is damp with pink tinged saliva and grey-black smear of paint. Ianthe wipes it on the shoulder of Gideon’s robes just to make a point.

“Be that way, then,” says Gideon, looking down, and then wrenching her gaze violently to the side when she realizes she can see straight down the front of Ianthe’s blouse. “I thought you’d jump at the opportunity to be Harrow’s savior, but if I have to do this whole-ass rescue alone and take all the credit myself, I _gladly_ will.” Gideon’s attempt at casual dismissiveness is profoundly unconvincing, especially not when Ianthe has the girl pressed against the cold metal wall, can feel the erratic fluttering movements of Harrow’s ribs as Gideon tries to keep her breathing under control. The cavalier is _desperate_ for Ianthe to listen, close to shattering from her own anxious energy. Ianthe is slightly mollified by the realization. 

However, this one distressingly _remedial_ misconception of Gideon’s won’t stop niggling at her. “Listen, you egg, there is no way you could have found Harrow in your dream, and no way you could do so now. Not on your own. Did you sleep through the entirety of creche school?” Gideon looks weirdly blank at the question. Ianthe files that away for later consideration. “Look, you’re not even a common spirit magician, much less a Lyctor. Let’s say Harrow has miraculously washed ashore on some kind of island or fixed point in the River. Bully for her. However, **your** only possible path in after her is through the main entrance, which requires your soul letting go of corporeality. **Permanently**.” Ianthe brings her skeletal hand up to hook a gentle phalange under Harrow’s chin, turns Gideon’s amber gaze to meet her own. She smiles wryly. “Disappointing as it may be for you and me both, you are _evidently_ still right here. In the flesh.” This last seems to be the catalyst Gideon needed to object to Ianthe’s proximity, as the cavalier finally, though ineffectually, attempts to wriggle free. The lone limb she manages to extricate is a leg, leaving the other trapped between Ianthe’s, their thighs now alternating. Probably not the position Gideon was aiming for, but Ianthe isn’t about to object.

“Please,” says Gideon, sounding deliciously pathetic, “if you care for that sour-faced little bone witch even ten percent as much as I do, consider what I’m saying. It won’t cost you anything to follow through on this lead, even if just to prove I’m taking the piss. We have so _much_ time to kill before we reach the Cohort.”

“Fine.”

“No, I know you. Swear.”

“I swear on the Emperor Undying-”

“On Coronabeth, fuckface.”

“Ask nicely, then.”

“Die in a fire you kinky weirdo.” But then, excruciatingly, “Please. Ianthe, she was right there in front of me. I could almost... _ **Please.**_ ”

“I swear on my sister that I will explore the concept in my research,” Ianthe allows. 

“And-”

“And consult you about it if I need details, yes.”

Gideon begins to deflate in her arms, tension bleeding out of her in increments. She mutters, “Dunno if your word is really worth anything, but...”

“Aww, keep talking like that and you’re going to dangerously over inflate my self image.”

“Bitch. I’m trying to thank you. For sticking your neck out for us. I’m not gonna lie and say I trust you...but I can’t do this on my own.”

“Whatever,” says Ianthe, suddenly impatient to move past this line of conversation. The cavalier really needn’t be so worried; when she says ‘please’ in that _particular_ tone, in _Harrow’s_ voice, Ianthe can’t help but try and keep the ball rolling by any means necessary. She steps back from the wall, lets her eyes trace the angles of the skinny body in front of her. This leaves Gideon ample space to squeeze past her and Ianthe feels a spike of triumph when she doesn’t even try.

It has been nearly two weeks since Gideon first sheepishly solicited sex from Ianthe. It should be easy; she waited much longer before. These last four interminable days since their training scuffle in the corridor have been a struggle though. The fight had left both of them stewing in bloody sweat (and hormones), so Ianthe had made a generous gesture of good faith and invited Gideon to come indulge in the actual running water shower in her quarters. Gideon had, predictably, responded to the offer by hiding in her room for several days, but for one single moment before she bolted, Ianthe had _almost_ had her. 

The cavalier is this close to breaking again, and it will only grow easier after Ianthe gets her into bed a second time. Once is an event, twice is a pattern, thrice becomes a habit, and habits are hard to break. So she’ll humor Gideon today, perhaps look into this revenant angle later, if her half-cooked theorem from this morning doesn’t pan out. But right now, Ianthe has an itch to scratch.

\--TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to my truest pillar of support for this fic, I know you wanted me to cut it but actually I have been waiting for my chance to use the word "prevaricate" because I **love** it. And no one is paying me to write this so, as Dulcinea would say, _nyah_.
> 
> Next chapter soon!


	6. -but I really want you for your body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Nights on the Mithraeum, listening to Harrow’s breathing, Ianthe had often wondered what might happen if she only dared to roll over in bed and touch. She’d imagined slowly, carefully coaxing that brilliant, ungainly, repressed little necromantic genius into disrobing, into letting Ianthe catalogue with her mouth all the spots that made Harrow moan and squirm. She imagined passion too; Harrowhark Nonagesimus could never be accused of lacking fire. It was one of the reasons Ianthe was so damn stupid over her. She’d pictured awkward, incandescent, furious Harrow restraining Ianthe, or the two of them biting, scratching - the kind of melodramatic, tumultuous fuck that culminates in crying orgasm, but finishes pleasantly dazed and amicably sharing a box of tissues.
>> 
>> She isn’t interested in treating the real Harrowhark the way she’s about to treat Gideon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CWs:** canon typical violence, canon typical emotional toxicity and canon very-atypical explicit rough sex. AKA Dead dove: do not eat. AKA; the chapter in which Ianthe says ‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a Cav, asking her to let me stick my entire hand inside her’. But actually she doesn’t ask at all, she just kind of goes for it.
> 
>  **IF this isn’t your speed but you want to follow the plot of this story, scroll down to below the line of *** asterisks for an important plot point (with only a small amount of explicitness)!** We do this like chipotle; you pick how spicy the sauce on your burrito is.
> 
> [warnings in more detail: non-negotiated kink, fisting, masturbating to a sleeping person, same emotional and physical violence as usual but this time during sex.]

The cavalier is this close to breaking again, and it will only grow easier after Ianthe gets her into bed a second time. Once is an event, twice is a pattern, thrice becomes a habit, and habits are hard to break. So she’ll humor Gideon today, perhaps look into this revenant angle later, if her half-cooked theorem from this morning doesn’t pan out. But right now, Ianthe has an itch to scratch.

Ianthe disengages from their little wall tableau entirely, turning her back to Gideon and circling to the opposite side of the tiny desk. She picks up a random piece of flimsy, hikes one hip up to half-sit on the worktop and pretends to read, saying, “So. This little vision can’t be the only reason you rushed over here. Otherwise why the urgency? As you said yourself, we have time to kill.” She watches out of the corner of her eye as Gideon blinks and straightens her posture to stand clear of the wall, seeming to pull herself out of a stupor. The cavalier shakes her head - either in negation or just to clear it.

“What are we, back at Canaan house? Use your words please.”

“Fuck, don’t I wish we were. But yeah, no, I only came to tell you about my dream. I’m supposed to go spar with Pyrrha at 19:00 hours anyway so.” Gideon claps her hands together with blithe finality. “Time for me to gap it.” 

It’s a shamelessly insubstantial excuse; Pyrrha doesn’t make _sparring appointments_. “I’d like it if you stayed,” says Ianthe, contemplatively folding and unfolding the unread flimsy in her hands. Gideon looks at her sharply, expression suspicious and oddly vulnerable. “You could help with my research. In fact, I’d personally love to hear more details of those dreams you mentioned having about Nonagesimus.” Ianthe waits, letting it build for full effect. She traces a finger suggestively across the open double edge of the flimsy, relishing the momentary sting of fine cuts as her skin splits and reseals around the razor thin surface. She meets Gideon’s eyes as her finger dips between the folded halves. “The erotic ones.”

Gideon flushes. Beneath the smear that’s become of her paint, the bits of naked skin on Harrow’s jaw and the opposite supraorbital ridge visibly darken. Ianthe wonders if she should be more frugal with making the cavalier blush, in case the constant repetition makes it boring - it’s no good to wear out one’s toys too quickly. But she’s beginning to think that won’t happen any time soon. When the king undying first dragged Ianthe and Gideon out of the River and trapped them together, she had expected the routine of restraining each other against any nearby walls/floors/doors/partitions/etc. would soon become tediously played-out. And yet.

“There’s no- I never said-” Gideon manages, strangled. Ravenous anticipation unfurls in Ianthe’s stomach.

“We both know what you meant,” Ianthe says, not unkindly. She cocks her head to the side, exposing the length of her neck. Harrow’s pink tongue darts out for the briefest of seconds to wet dry lips; Ianthe doesn’t think Gideon notices. It’s _cute_.

“No. No, that was a one-time thing, I told you-”

“Suit yourself,” Ianthe shrugs indifferently and casually discards the flimsy she’s been fidgeting with. “It just seems such a waste for you to go rub one out alone in your cold room when you have a gracious, well-bred Princess of Ida right here, offering to do it for you.”

Both of Harrow’s hands clench into fists at that, her nostrils flaring, and Gideon turns a quarter rotation away from Ianthe; all of the earlier tension has returned, spooled itself tightly back into her in an instant. Gideon is so transparent it sometimes surpasses ‘fun’ and slides unabashedly into ‘discomfiting’. The girl is lucky no entourages were allowed at Canaan house; she certainly wouldn’t have lasted _five minutes_ in a royal court before the vultures descended. Still, it’s intriguing: Ianthe hadn’t expected this blow to land quite so heavily. She’s being lazy with her material: it’s the same dig she’d used in that first sparring match so long ago - 

Ah. Now there’s a theory. She’ll have to investigate. She’s ninety percent certain she’s about to get the opportunity right now.

Ianthe turns, searching for a new item. She’s prepared to be as lewdly suggestive with office supplies as necessary, but suddenly there’s Harrow (no, Gideon), crowding between her legs so Ianthe has to open her knee and hastily scoot her other hip up onto the desk edge to accommodate. Harrow’s small, strong, precise hands are fisted in the material of Ianthe’s shirt, and Gideon is staring at her, gaze absolutely wild.

Harrow’s breathing is heavy as if with overexertion. Ianthe can feel each warm puff of air as it hits her face, a tiny respite from the ever-present chill of the ship. They stare at one another, and Ianthe holds her own breath, hoping she’s played deftly enough to win.

Gideon breaks, and there’s an awkward double-feint where Gideon’s not sure which side to go for, which means Ianthe can’t determine which direction to tilt her head. But then Harrow’s lips are on her own, on her cheek, on her neck, teeth sinking into the delicate skin over her sternocleidomastoid muscle. Harrow’s sharp chin pokes painfully into her thyroid.

Ianthe moans, absolutely shameless. This is encouraging, much more enthusiasm than she had expected. She had thought their brawls a decent substitute for physical contact, but the warmth of Harrow’s skin is reminding her _just_ how good it feels to be touched by another person. She’s embarrassed to realize how she craves it-perhaps she needs to appropriate Mercy’s little hormone trick and boost her baseline oxytocin levels a bit. One of Harrow’s hands has released the cloth of her shirt, is exploring her left breast through the fabric almost reverently. Gideon tweaks her nipple a little too hard (adding to the tally in favor of neglecting bras), and Ianthe crosses her calves behind Harrow’s back, bending her knees to drag Gideon closer. 

Harrow’s other hand is sliding down Ianthe’s abdomen promisingly and she’s just thinking it’s a tragedy that she hadn’t also forgotten her underwear today, when Gideon suddenly stops, hands pulling away from Ianthe as if stung. Before she even thinks about it, Ianthe whines in irritation. “What??” she demands.

Gideon makes a small ambiguous noise in response, avoiding Ianthe’s eyes. Ianthe groans again, this time in pure outrage. “Griddle, you are so godDAMN frustrating sometimes, I want to throw you right out the airlock!” Gideon shakes her head abortively, but remains mute.

“Fine,” Ianthe says, dismounting the desk but keeping one hand on the back of Harrow’s neck to stop her stepping away. She slips out from between Gideon and the table’s edge, presses her free hand to the fulcrum of Harrow’s hips, winds her fingers up into Harrow’s heavy black hair...and _slams_ her down face-first over the desk. There is a startled grunt and an audible cracking sound when Harrow’s face hits the table, and Ianthe sees a spatter of blood (broken nose?) pepper the plex surface below. Only a modest amount escapes before Harrow’s Lyctoral body fulfills its nature. Gideon lets out a wet exhale that sounds like nothing less than **relief**. 

“Is _this_ how you want it?” Ianthe asks, pulling roughly on Harrow’s hair to punctuate her words. “Face down, from behind, so you can pretend to yourself that you aren’t actively participating in this?” Gideon shivers, but doesn’t otherwise move.

“Have it your way,” barks Ianthe. “Hands at the top of the desk.” Harrow’s arms shoot up instantly, catch themselves and hesitate for a second, then very deliberately extend to grasp the opposite lip of the surface so that Harrow’s lean body is stretched across the desk. The anterior ridge of her pelvis must be pressing painfully into the metal edge beneath her hips, but Gideon doesn’t make a sound. 

Ianthe’s notes are scattered across the floor like so many de-animated constructs, exactly as predicted (god, she’s good - maybe it’s clairvoyance, maybe she’s just gifted at manifesting her intentions, who can say?) Ianthe lets go of Harrow’s hair, instead fits her left palm to the occipital curve of her skull and leans her weight down to anchor her in place. With her right hand, Ianthe fumbles through the excessive drapery Gideon’s affecting. It’s overdone, as impressions of Harrow’s conservatism go, but Ianthe appreciates the reminder that the girl under her, arching back into her hands, isn’t actually Harry. 

During those nights on the Mithraeum, listening to Harrow’s breathing, Ianthe had often wondered what might happen if she dared to roll over in bed and brush her fingers over that prominent cheekbone, down the thin neck, trace across a delicate clavicle...she’s imagined how she might slowly, carefully coax that brilliant, ungainly, repressed little necromantic genius into disrobing, into letting Ianthe catalogue with her mouth all the spots that made Harrow moan and squirm. She would be finicky, would balk at exposure. So Ianthe would keep the lights off, mold her body to fit the angles and planes of Harrow’s back and finger her slow and gentle in the darkness, eat Harrow out while she crouched, invisible, under the covers. In the beginning, It would take the deftest of touches to keep ‘the-only-anatomy-I- **don’t** -fear-is-osseous’ Nonagesimus riding that knife edge between mortification and pleasure, but Ianthe has always found that the hardest won success tastes the sweetest. 

She’s imagined passion as well; reconstructed every moment of that first kiss after she’d handed Harrow her own letters - the forceful grip of Harrow’s hands on her face, pulling her in - the clumsy chapped lips, the sour taste of her mouth, the demanding, inexperienced press of tongue. Harrowhark Nonagesimus could never be accused of lacking fire. It was one of the reasons Ianthe was so damn stupid over her. So she had pictured awkward, incandescent, furious Harrow restraining Ianthe with those sparse bone constructs, or the two of them biting, scratching, striking - the kind of melodramatic, tumultuous fuck that culminates in pleas for mercy and crying orgasm, but finishes pleasantly dazed and amicably sharing a box of tissues.

She isn’t interested in treating the real Harrowhark the way she’s about to treat Gideon. 

Ianthe’s fingers finally settle on the waistband of the trousers Gideon is wearing - she yanks downward on the elastic and hears the pop as a seam splits, but now the pants are out of her way, around Harrow’s knees. Ianthe traces one cold metallic digit featherlight across Harrow’s skin, up from just behind the knee to the inner thigh, and then higher to the damp, dark curls at the juncture of her legs. Gideon shifts her feet further apart. Sensation is odd for her in this hand, not absent by any means (Harrow’s a bone adept; the construct is meticulously well calibrated) but simply constrained by how the shape of bare bone differs from an innervated dermis overlaying muscle and tendon. She’s well used to it on her sword, but it’s new in this context.

She thinks she hears the cavalier sigh quietly as Ianthe explores the contours of Harrow’s cunt. 

“I’m going to fuck you now, Griddle. Exactly how you want it. And I’m going to need you to tell me more about dear Harry’s featuring roles in your dreams while I do it.”

“UM-” Gideon manages into the tabletop, comically high pitched.

“I’ll still touch you if you don’t talk- I’m not _actually evil_. But you won’t be coming today unless you give me a nice-” and at this Ianthe drags her middle finger in one continuous stroke from Harrow’s clitoris back to her opening. Her inner labia glide apart easily, slick, and it’s all Ianthe can do not to just press into her that instant. She has to clear her throat. “...-recitation for my trouble,” Ianthe finishes, slightly awkwardly after a distracted moment too long.

There is no immediate response from the cavalier. No surprise; she’ll come around eventually. Even with the unfamiliar distribution of sensory neurons in her skeletal fingers, Ianthe can plainly tell just how wet Gideon is. She withdraws her hand from between Harrow’s legs, and lays all her strength into a weighty slap across Harrow’s upper thigh, just below the ass-cheek. Air escapes too easily; the sound isn’t as gratifying as when it’s done with skin on skin, but the red welts in the shape of carpals, metacarpals, phalanges that bloom and then disappear, absolutely are. Gideon cries out in shock, sounding like a wounded animal, and Ianthe has to squeeze her own thighs ineffectually together where she stands.

She finds her hand back at Harrow’s cunt, ignores her clit and drives middle and ring fingers simultaneously into her. Gideon doesn’t make a sound this time, but tilts her pelvis, arching her low back to give Ianthe a better angle. Ianthe realizes she’s laughing softly as she begins to establish a rhythm to match the instinctual rocking of Harrow’s hips. “Oh- oh look at you. Taking me so easily. You’re fucking soaking and I haven’t even _touched_ your clit.” She hears what sounds like a bitten back sob, and is grateful for the reminder to press down more cruelly with the hand that’s on the back of Harrow’s head.

“You _do_ know she made me this hand, right? I recall you don’t remember everything that happened while you were in storage; I just want to be sure you’re aware.” On the next withdrawal, Ianthe adds a third finger, and presses back in, quick and merciless. She can get so much deeper without the webbing of interossei and connective tissue gumming up her metacarpals. Harrow’s construct really is a beautiful thing functionally and aesthetically, Ianthe thinks as she stares down at where her hand enters Harrow’s body. A sheen of slick coats the burnished metal, makes it glisten in the cabin’s cold artificial lighting like it’s illuminated from within. She bottoms out at the carpals of her pinky. Harrow’s thighs are shaking visibly, as if from intense strain, and Gideon is no longer rocking herself back onto Ianthe’s hand...but she’s not trying to escape either.

Ianthe explores gently, seeking the cluster of spongy tissue - being a Lyctor would make her so _madly_ efficient at finding a girl’s g-spot... **if** the girl in question weren’t another anatomically unreadable Lyctor. But that’s fine, Ianthe can do this perfectly well the old fashioned way. She rubs lightly, seeking - Gideon whimpers: there it is. Ianthe asks “If I’m touching you with her construct, does that mean Harry is fucking you as well?” and crooks her three fingers downward cruelly.

Gideon _screams_ guttrally and then begins to babble, helpless. The rocking of her hips resumes, she’s trying desperately to fuck herself on Ianthe’s fingers. Ianthe doesn’t let Gideon gain any control, doesn’t match her rhythm, just keeps her fingers on that spot and continues massaging. And listens attentively; she genuinely does want to know what Gideon dreams, it hadn’t just been a play for dominance. She’s also glad the cabins are sound-proofed (or at least hers is - she had made sure).

“Oh fuck, oh fucking FUCK - that feels -” a choked gasp “dreams - I, uh...dream about Harrow. About - her sitting on my face, telling me how to eat her out...hnn”

Ianthe stills her moving hand, lets go of Harrow’s head for a second to reach under one knee and lift up. Obediently, Gideon folds the leg awkwardly under herself onto the table top, clambers up with the other when Ianthe slaps her inner thigh imperiously. She moans and her cunt flutters around Ianthe’s three fingers as the new position changes their angle. Even backwoods-trained cavaliers are so _good_ at taking direction: this entire time and Harrow’s hands are still white knuckled around the far lip of the desk. “And?” She encourages, slowly starting to move her hand again.

“And - shit - and her holding me down, like this, choking me, pulling my hai- oh. **oh FUCK.** ” Ianthe has just dragged her three fingers out, in order to add the pinky. She begins to thrust back in, then thinks _well, in for a penny_ , and folds her thumb against her palm. Ianthe pushes again, insistent but glacially slow this time. Even with the advantages of Lyctoral healing, and a hand that’s far less bulky than a normal flesh-covered one, Gideon still needs to relax her pelvic floor for this to happen. 

Ianthe grabs a fistful of Gideon’s hair, threading fingers in close to the scalp, and yanks cruelly to the side, twisting Harrow’s neck at an unnatural angle. 

The distraction works, and Ianthe’s hand slips in, to the wrist. Ianthe is riveted by the view, and a little surprised at herself. Astounding-she hadn’t even needed any extra lubrication. She keeps it completely still, watches Harrow’s ribcage expanding and contracting spasmodically as Gideon struggles for oxygen. She says: “What else?”

“Whu-?” Gideon barely manages, sounding lightyears away.

“What else is Harrow doing to you?” There is a long pause.

“Fisting me, apparently,” says Gideon, sounding a mix between wondering and vaguely affronted. Apparently Ianthe has given the cavalier too long to regain her equilibrium. She curls the tips of all four fingers, gentle, and Harrow’s entire body seizes as if it’s being electrocuted.

“Please-” Gideon doesn’t sound as if she knows whether she’s asking for more or for it to stop. Her voice is thick with mucus and tears. Ianthe presses slightly harder. “Ah - she...tells me she likes it...that I’m...doing good, making her feel g-”

“Reach back and touch your clit for me. I want to see it.” Ianthe orders. At first she thinks Gideon is going to comply without question, Harrow’s shoulders and chest shift to one side as Gideon frees her right arm to reach underneath herself - but then Gideon freezes. “Come on,” coos Ianthe, syrupy sweet, “don’t you want to be a nice, obedient cav for me?”

“No,” mumbles Gideon. Then, “No no no I can’t, s’wrong, I-” and she begins to sob audibly, shoulders shaking.

“Shhh-” says Ianthe, using her left hand to brush soothing strokes down the other girl’s spine. Even in the icy cold of deep space, Harrow’s body is sweating profusely. The moisture on her skin creates friction, thick layers of fabric catching against Ianthe’s rubbing motions. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m not angry with you,” and, because the little white lie is an artform Ianthe cherishes, “I’m **only** doing this because you want me to.”

Ianthe has her answer, signed, sealed and delivered; her explanation for Gideon’s wild sensitivity at any reference to masturbation. But perversely (as usual) she can’t _help_ but push just a little bit farther.

“Why can’t you touch yourself, Gideon?”

“I can’t - to Harrow. It can’t be **me** who does it. **I** can’t be the one, she’d be disgusted, hate me after -” the sobs return in full force and Harrow’s body shakes. Each uncontrolled convulsion causes her pelvic floor to tighten around Ianthe’s wrist, which seems to be making Gideon cry harder in turn. It’s a pristinely brutal feedback loop. 

And yet. Ianthe can’t help frowning at herself. It’s become such a regular occurrence recently she finds she must acknowledge the trend; in these moments when she _should_ be gloating as a predator over a kill, instead she feels...bad. She wonders if it’s the change in the mineral content of her diet, all those stupid ration bars.

“Gideon,” Ianthe says, “you’ve been so good for me today. You don’t have to feel bad,” Gideon’s sobs marginally diminish. She sniffles effortfully. She’s listening to Ianthe. “You’re going to be fine. Do you want to stop?”

There is a drawn out pause. Ianthe watches interestedly as Gideon battles to wrest conscious control of Harrow’s breathing away from her sympathetic nervous system. Slowly, she settles, but there are still these tiny shifting motions-oh, Ianthe realizes, Gideon is rocking back on her hand. Well okay then.

In that case, it’s the perfect time to employ some good old operant conditioning. Ianthe folds herself forward over Harrow’s propped up hips, reaches her free left arm under Harrow’s abdomen and down, past her pubic hair, drawing gentle circles over her clit. Gideon’s minute tremors start up again all over her body, but the sobs don’t return, thankfully - Ianthe is bored of listening to that drivel. 

She presses her nose into Harrow’s sweaty neck just below her ear and says “You’re going to come nice and hard for me.” It wasn’t a question, but Gideon nods jerkily. “Good girl. Fucking you like this turns me on, you know that?” It feels like a line of dialogue from a mass-produced second house erotica vid (it probably IS) but Ianthe is surprised to hear the phrase come out sounding entirely genuine.

“Mmf” says Gideon, and Ianthe laughs.

“Yeah, me too,” she says, and curls her hand into a fist inside Gideon, simultaneously grinding the base of her palm into Gideon’s clit. “Come for me, Griddle.”

Gideon does.

***

Afterwards, Ianthe carefully arranges Harrow’s- Gideon’s? Harrow’s? unconscious body beneath the covers of her small bunk. Then she tries to climb into the cramped space between her and the wall. Ianthe finds herself awkwardly crouched on knees and elbows beside the sleeping cavalier, face pressed into Harrow’s trapezius at the juncture of neck and shoulder, where the black drapery Gideon affects has slipped loose. Open mouthed, Ianthe inhales the smell of Harrow’s sweat and pleasure. She stays there, unfortunately aspirates several strands of that dark hair which stick to the saliva on her tongue ( ** _gross_** ) as she furiously works herself to orgasm with the hand she’d used on Gideon.

It doesn’t not take long and when she comes her eyes roll back and she opens her mouth further in a silent scream, so wide her jaw pops. Ianthe feels a bloom of delicate thanergetic pinpricks beneath her skin as millions of tiny capillaries in her face and neck burst under the compression of seized muscle fibers. She had always wondered what she might look like with freckles (the kind Corona used to get when they were younger, if the two of them spent enough time in the UVB-lit agriculture pods, playing hide-and-scare with the palace horticulturist). As she collapses onto Harrow’s somnolent form, she feels a stab of disappointment at her Lyctorhood; the blood will be reabsorbed and vessels repaired before she can look in a mirror. Whatever, Ianthe couldn’t get up now if she wanted to. This must be what the other side of soul-siphoning feels like.

Gideon had also dropped like a puppet with her strings cut after her orgasm earlier, almost rolling sideways off the desk before Ianthe had caught her. Ianthe hums quietly, satisfied with herself; there’s no way the cavalier will deny her again after today. But even as she’s drifting off, something catches in the back of her mind. Strings cut...

What if there are no traces of spirit magic to find in the River _because Harrow **isn’t** employing Augustine and Mercy’s techniques to maintain the administrative backdoor to her body_? What if Harrow has severed all the natural ties that draw a soul back toward its physical form? What if she left Gideon at the helm and never intends to return at all?

Ah, there’s the bitter taste of truth. The girl is running away, all over again. Ianthe kicks herself - she can’t be surprised, not after watching Harry muck about in her own limbic system like a toddler playing blocks with her first autonomously grown chunks of adipose tissue. Even still, it is beyond infuriating to see someone as bright as Harrow folding for yet **another** round _before she even looks at the other cards she’s been dealt_. It’s poor sportsmanship to withdraw just because your hand doesn’t contain the single **particular** ginger-haired ace you wanted. Ianthe has no doubt that she’s a worse person than Harrow by very many measures, but at least she knows how to choke down her guilt and get on with the business of living.

It is hours later when Ianthe awakens to an abrupt epiphany, one so obvious she immediately feels stupid. The bed beside her is ice cold. Gideon had slunk back to her own quarters at some point - no surprise there. Too bad though, because Ianthe knows how to find Harrow’s soul. She just needs to be touching Harrow’s anchor to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT** Harrow's got opinions over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710867/chapters/70392054) \- Updating schedule designed to preserve narrative build so you can jump back and forth between there and here without spoiling your dinner.
> 
> \----------  
> Just to be crystal clear re my authorial standpoint, I do not encourage anyone to do the above type of kink shit (*ahem* _emotional abuse_ ) or fist someone without ENTHUSIASTIC CONSENT, or just generally in any way encourage anyone to **behave like Ianthe** (up to and including trying to start fights by repeating things other people say back to them in a high-pitched voice.)
> 
> \----------  
> this chapter ALSO brought to you by my expensive degree I don't otherwise use, via that one paper my friend wrote reviewing contemporary scholarly stances on the existence and nature of "the g-spot": does it actually exist or are ppl with vaginas just making it up? If so what type of tissue is it made of (actual answer: "spongy")? And how does it work? Is it associated with the ability to squirt? Is it _really_ all that important 'cuz guys my wife has never mentioned it'?
> 
> Guess how many of the **upsettingly few** peer reviewed articles she could actually find for the project were authored by cis men LMAO GUESS. yall there are so MANY papers about prostates I'm OFFENDED just thinking about it, but **ANYWAY** above is the spiciest thing I've written in many years (maybe ever?) and I'd love to hear what you think. Drop me a comment.


	7. I would walk on water, I would walk on fire, I would sell my soul to the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “You wound me Griddle, I’ve never manipulated anyone in my entire life,” Ianthe says, all innocence. At this Gideon finally turns to face her, with one of the most exhaustedly incredulous expressions Ianthe has ever seen. Ianthe struggles not to break into hysterical laughter. She’s been the recipient of many a long-suffering look, but the absolute bland purity of Gideon’s contempt is transcendent. It’s far better than Harrow ever managed; Nonagesimus never could restrain herself from polluting even her coldest recriminations with a dash too much hauteur. 
>> 
>> It really is too bad that one day soon, Gideon’s soul will be little more than so much Lyctoral battery juice. And the more successful today’s experiment is, the closer that day looms. Ianthe almost wants to turn, march back to her cabin and waste another twenty-four hours checking over the same theorems that she had known were correct the instant she wrote them three days ago. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos if you're digging this fic!  
> \---  
> I don't think I say this enough, but my beta is a literal saint and edits my bullshit even when I text her at 3am demanding free labor. Basically, I'm a darksided cat and yet she graciously accepts the gifts of dead birds I constantly leave on her kitchen table. Get you a real one like that.

When she finally finds Gideon, it’s where Ianthe had least expected: a mechanical engine access room. It took her one day of unexplainable dawdling spent checking her theorem proofs, and two days of perfunctory hunting. She is loath to acknowledge what’s been making her drag her feet like this, but she’s not about to fight herself over it either; a few extra days are an infinitesimal drop in the well of eternity. Eventually, on a complete whim, she had come down to wander the lower decks, areas primarily dedicated to cruiser’s cargo holds and engineering.

When she first hears the voices - _multiple_ voices - she is rounding the bend of the corridor that leads to an internal engine hatch she thinks is for maintenance access to...something - the FTL drive’s coolant systems? Ianthe has been focused on reverse engineering the ship’s comms and surveillance networks, she hasn’t wasted her time learning more than the very surface basics of this heretical organization’s approach to deep space locomotion.

Ianthe softens her footfalls, and cleaves to one side of the corridor for some attempt at concealment. She’s intrigued; she recognizes Harrow’s high, naturally piercing voice (its shrillness ameliorated by a roguish indolence of delivery that’s all Gideon), and then the deep rattle that belongs to ... _the Saint of Duty_? **Pyrrha** , Ianthe corrects herself, or whatever remains of the woman Pyrrha once was. It won’t do to mix up identities (especially those which indicate differing objectives and tactical approaches) in all this body swapping business.

When she’s close enough to discern words, Ianthe ceases her approach and looks for a good hiding spot. Conveniently, there’s a little alcove full of emergency supplies, ostensibly in case of a coolant leak, right beside the shallow, open passageway leading into the room Gideon and Pyrrha occupy. Ianthe folds herself in among the stock of cheap-feeling hazmat suits, and listens. Gideon is adamantly contesting something, her usual bull-headed self.

“-never said I was putting all my eggs in one basket, I’m just saying it can’t _hurt_ to move things along where I can. You know?”

“I _do_ know,” says Pyrrha. There is a long pause. Ianthe amuses herself with the mental image of gears laboriously turning in Pyrrha’s head. “But again, I think you may be misapprehending his intentions. What makes you so certain getting back to the cohort will make a difference?”

“I’m not certain? He’s God, his plans and desires are, like, ineffable, or whatever. But I do know we’re headed in the direction of the cohort. At least, he says we are, so, duh, he must _want_ to eventually get there,” Gideon insists. Ianthe is increasingly more invested with every word. Why is Pyrrha even participating in this conversation? 

“And, I wasn’t going to tell you this, because it’s not really any of your business, and the source is beyond untrustworthy, but I’m fairly sure he’s completely ruled out the possibility of bringing her back **before** we reach the cohort.” Ianthe scoffs aloud at this before she can catch herself. She prays the Cavaliers haven’t heard. One of the rare times when she _hadn’t_ been lying, and still Gideon doubts her? Nav is finally grasping the rules of the game.

There is the soft swish-slap of flimsy on flimsy as if someone is flipping rapidly through the pages of a book. “You’re taking a larger risk than you realize,” says Pyrrha.

Gideon actually laughs out loud. **Laughs.** Ianthe has so rarely heard the sound (either from Harrow, or from Gideon-as-Harrow), that it startles her. She is vaguely irked that _Pyrrha_ , more husk than person, can elicit any response from Griddle that _Ianthe_ isn’t able to.

She doesn’t have time to give that last thought the dissection it probably calls for, because Gideon is saying, “Oh come on, what risk? Breaking my nail on a hex wrench? Getting carpal tunnel from typing jump coordinates in longhand? The potential outcomes are ‘definitely not’, and ‘hard maybe’. Are you really telling me that in my place, _you’d_ be content sitting around with your thumbs up your ass instead of trying everything you could think of to push the dial over to ‘maybe’? You’re not that kind of person, Pyrrha.”

“Those are not the only potential outcomes,” says Pyrrha, portentously. Then, “John doesn’t need BoE’s FTL tech, he never has. And he doesn’t like having his hand forced. So consider why we haven’t jumped back already.”

“Uhh. Sightseeing? Does he prefer a scenic route? Can we leave once we hit the gift shop?”

“No.”

“Help me out here, cuz I literally feel like I’m pissing down a mine shaft in a stiff breeze and you’re telling me to aim for some specific, dainty teacup at the bottom that _I can’t even see_.” There is a lengthy pause, then Gideon sighs loudly in frustration and the sounds of shuffling and clacking of keys follow.

“You never heard this from me,” comes Pyrrha’s dry rasp of a voice, and the rattles of Gideon’s movements stop cold. “I think he’s looking for something in Edenite space.”

“Well jeez, why didn’t he just say so? I am this close to _losing my fucking mind_ out here. It’s bad enough I’d probably even be willing to _**help**_ him if it would only speed things up.”

“I think you already are.”

“What does that mean?” There’s the sound of slow footfalls coming nearer to Ianthe’s nook, someone leaving the room. “No, like, what the actual **FUCK** does that mean, Pyrrha? I’d know if I was helping him, I- **PLEASE.** ” The footsteps pause. Nav continues hastily, “Please, can you _try_ to say more than three sentences in a row?”

“I’m hungry. There’s no food here.”

“Seriously? I don’t know why I bother. Clearly your only two settings are either bad small talk or vaguely ominous statements.” Gideon sounds frustrated but also, somehow _fond_? “At least tell me why you’re volunteering to share any of this? I mean, couldn’t it get you in trouble if-”

“Because I don’t have much left to lose. You do. And I liked your girl; she’s a fighter.”

“That’s… You’re not wrong.” The footsteps start up again, Pyrrha emerging through the open external metal hatch. Ianthe can see Gideon the First’s shoulder and neck between the orange swaths of reinforced plastic that surround her. She holds completely still, not even daring to breathe. Gideon calls, “Hey, uh, thank you?”

“ _Never_ mention it. Also, I don’t see what’s so ominous about saying I’m hungry,” Pyrrha says and turns, walking right past Ianthe’s hiding place ... and looking directly at her as she does. Ianthe thinks the jig is well and truly up, but the cavalier says nothing to alert Gideon. After a suspended moment, Pyrrha just faces forward and continues on her way down the corridor towards the lifts.

Ianthe waits for several minutes, processing what she’s just heard and listening to the beeps, whirs and occasional soft cursing of Gideon messing with whatever she’s messing with in there. Sounds like Pyrrha’s warning hasn’t done much to deter her. It’s no surprise; Gideon Nav wouldn’t be Gideon Nav if she weren’t pigheaded to a fault. It’s done plenty for Ianthe, however. All those small-but-pivotal details Pyrrha had so generously lavished on the Ninth have collectively begun a cascade in Ianthe’s mind. She’s already restructuring her own theories surrounding the true objective of the God who Became Man, his choice of transport vessel, and Gideon’s actual role in all this. Previously, Ianthe had written off the King Undying’s fixation on Gideon as just another unearned instance of a ‘favorite child’ benefitting from arbitrary emotional nepotism. But now…

All these partial revelations certainly throw a wrench in today's original plan. But, Ianthe always finds a way to see the glass as half-full, and the information might indeed offer a promising new opportunity. If all Pyrrha’s implications are correct - that Gideon is disposable and should tread carefully, that unbeknownst to Gideon herself she is being kept in Harrow’s stead in order to ‘help’ with some specific purpose, that therefore God’s attachment has no basis in sentiment... Well. 

Ianthe will have to keep that in her pocket pending future examination. And it’s nothing she can act on today anyway, since Pyrrha had absolutely made her. (When the seed of a plan germinating in Ianthe’s head does eventually sprout and bear fruit, it must not be executed in a manner that's easily traced back to her.) 

It is inappropriately easy for Ianthe to accept this new delay. Reflecting on this, she has to acknowledge that she has likely over-indulged her own enjoyment of provoking Nav. Things will be vastly better when Harrowhark is back, but perhaps in some ways they won’t be _quite_ the same. 

Anyway, technical progress can still be made today. In fact, it’s probably a good idea to give her new theory a practical test before she aims for her end goal. And now, Pyrrha is gone and Ianthe has waited more than long enough to corner Gideon.

She weaves her way out of the hanging grove of hazmat suits, backtracks a little down the corridor on silent feet, then turns and reapproaches, affecting a more audible stride. When she enters, Gideon is seated with her back to Ianthe, but the relaxed slouch of her shoulders is belied by the way she has positioned Harrow’s body. One foot is firmly planted, the other leg tucked beneath her, Harrow’s left hand braced and ready to push herself up to a low crouch: Gideon is poised to counterattack at the slightest provocation.

“Why, if it isn’t my disappearing lady. I thought you might be a figment of my imagination, after these last few days.”

“Piss off, Tridentarius. I’m busy,” says Gideon.

“And what is it you’re doing, exactly?” Ianthe queries, genuinely curious. Gideon has several heavy binders of flimsy spread on the floor in an arc surrounding her. A dim green light blinks intermittently from the display of the small portable type-pad next to Gideon’s hip, which must be what Ianthe heard her fiddling with. The printed text in the binder Gideon has open in front of her looks (at least from a distance) like Edenite script, familiar from signage around the ship, but it’s accompanied by a proliferation of technical diagrams.

“Something you’d find boring,” Gideon says, and turns a page mechanically before pressing a single button on her keypad, “given that it’s actually productive and doesn’t involve manipulating people.”

“You wound me Griddle, I’ve never manipulated anyone in my entire life,” Ianthe says, all innocence. This is what finally makes Gideon stop pretending to read. The cavalier turns to face Ianthe, with one of the most exhaustedly incredulous expressions she has ever seen, and Ianthe does her best not to break into hysterical laughter. She’s been the recipient of many a long-suffering look, but the absolute bland purity of Gideon’s contempt is transcendent. It’s far better than Harrow has ever managed; Nonagesimus never could restrain herself from polluting even her coldest recriminations with a dash too much hauteur. 

It really is too bad that one day soon, Gideon’s soul will be little more than so much Lyctoral battery juice. And the more successful today’s experiment is, the closer that day looms. Ianthe almost wants to turn, march back to her cabin and waste another twenty-four hours checking over the same theorems that she had known were correct the instant she wrote them three days ago. Almost.

She steps swiftly over the raised sill of the inner access door, and immediately Gideon is on her feet. Her typing device is shut, cradled protectively in one clenched fist, and with the other hand, she is brandishing a-

“I didn’t realize you were into antiques,” says Ianthe with a small gesture of her chin at the firearm Gideon is holding. She continues to approach.

“I didn’t realize you were into getting holes blown in you,” says Gideon, keeping her weapon trained on Ianthe while she backs away, circling.

“Haven’t tried it yet, actually. But I _do_ know I enjoy getting blown, if that’s an offer.”

“Sorry, I don’t like the taste of crazy skank.” The retort isn’t Gideon’s best work. She’s distracted, edging around the small room, clearly intent on drawing Ianthe deeper into the space. The Cavalier is trying to shift their angles enough to give herself a clear escape route to the entrance behind Ianthe. It won’t matter if she maneuvers successfully, she won’t make it out of the room; Ianthe is not playing by their usual rules of engagement today. Ianthe can’t entirely restrain herself from **_playing_** , though. Griddle’s agitation is like a split lip or a loose thread - as soon as you’re reminded of its existence, you’re _compelled_ to pick at it.

Gideon clears her throat. “What are you doing down here anyway, Ianthe? I would’ve thought you’d leave maintenance to the servants, you’re not the type to get your hands dirty.”

“Oh, is maintenance all you’re doing here?” Ianthe asks. She lets the comment about dirtying her hands pass without remark. Plenty of time for _that_ type of thing later, after she visits Harrow and examines Gideon’s little project. She’s far enough into the room now that she can nudge one of the binders on the floor open with a toe. She glances at it momentarily - some kind of navigation chart? - keeping Gideon in her periphery. 

“It looks to me like you were getting more ambitious than that. Why don’t you tell me what problem’s got you working your little brain so hard. Perhaps I could help?” Ianthe offers, batting her eyelashes. 

“Nah,” says Nav dismissively as she continues to backpedal. Ianthe obligingly follows her lead, stepping past the open binder and farther away from the entrance, feeding the cavalier’s false hope of escape. “I’ve gotta save _some_ hobbies just for me-time. You understand.”

Gideon’s tone is still casual, but in contrast her gaze keeps darting between Ianthe’s face, the binders, the doorway. She is distracted, yet the gun barrel never strays from its mark on Ianthe’s chest.

“Listen, speaking of me-time... As previously stated, I was just in the middle of something,” the Cavalier gestures vaguely at the mess of the room. “So why don’t we take a rain check on whatever twisted game it is you want to play today, and instead you can kindly just leave me the fuck alone?” Nav is obviously rattled; she probably hadn’t expected Ianthe to ever come down here, must have let her guard down thinking she’d discovered a true sanctuary.

Ianthe deliberates. Of course, there’s no chance in the cosmos she’s going to postpone her ‘twisted game’. It seems that the more frequently and _deeply_ she digs her teeth into Gideon, the worse she tolerates the long stretches during which her only diversions consist of her writings, imagination, and the odd unencrypted Edenite file she manages to unearth via ship computer access terminal. Ianthe has never been big on self-denial when she wants something, and this - Gideon, once more squirming in her clutches - is a convenient opportunity to play and work simultaneously. Ianthe intends to have her cake and eat it too.

Developing a dependency on a particular toy this early into eternity might be cause for concern in any other circumstance, but Ianthe isn’t counting this as a _real_ risk. After all, Gideon’s days are numbered now that Harrow’s body problem has a likely solution in sight. Ianthe intends to shamelessly indulge her hedonism until the noble little Cav’s expiration date rolls around, after which it will be impossible for anyone to use Griddle against her anyway. 

Ianthe is talented at quitting things, better yet when the excision is sudden and complete. It was how she’d so successfully relinquished Coronabeth, her companion of an entire lifetime. Ianthe has advanced in both skill and station with barely a hiccup since then, hasn’t she?

Recreation aside, Ianthe **does** still have a choice to make in the current moment. Should she bite the metaphorical (possibly literal) bullet and get down to necromantic business? Or should she press her current advantage, keep Gideon off-balance and entice some more information out of the Ninth? 

It will only enhance Ianthe’s planning if she can figure out what Nav’s doing that’s got Pyrrha so on edge, and Ianthe certainly isn’t getting anything out of Pyrrha directly. What can postponing her dip in the river for another few minutes hurt?

But, Ianthe admonishes, she has let herself dawdle over this long enough. It’s already three days past time to begin the process of finding Harry. And it’s not like she’s delivering Gideon into eternal oblivion _today_. Pyrrha knows Ianthe is down here; trying to pull Harry back now is not worth the risk. Even if Ianthe can make it look like an accident caused by Nonagesimus herself, the emperor HAD expressly forbidden Ianthe from meddling and who knows where Pyrrha's ultimate loyalties lie. No, Ianthe's present agenda is merely to test a technique and locate Harrow’s hiding spot. So why is she still hesitating?

She tunes back in just in time to catch the culmination of one of Gideon’s signature aggravated diatribes. The Cavalier could be pictured in a dictionary next to the term ‘anxious talker.’

“-currently pointing a gun at you and you’re _still_ ignoring me, no wonder your sister went batshit over you paying more attention to Tern than to her. Even if the ‘attention’ was literally eating him. It makes so much more **sense** to me now. The poor thing suffered through a whole lifetime with _you_ ; I almost can’t blame her for growing up to be such a fucking creep.”

Ah. Ianthe is momentarily grateful to Gideon for unknowingly breaking whatever charm had been responsible for her strange paralysis.

“Don’t talk about Corona as if you actually know her,” Ianthe hisses. “The closest she’d allow a dog like you is beneath her feet, to lick the bottom of her shoes. And even though you’d obviously _love_ that, dirty little slut that you are, you still wouldn’t _know_ her.”

“Oh, have I struck a nerve?” Gideon grins at her, golden eyes glittering in nervous gratification. “Actually now that you mention it, I think Corona _was_ interested in getting to **know** me better. She was certainly an avid attendee of the gun show.” 

“I’m sure,” Ianthe acquiesces amiably, “any woman can appreciate a Cavalier’s physique on the most basic anatomical level. But what have you got left to show for it now?” Gideon isn’t deft enough to conceal a pained grimace, but she still manages a rapid rejoinder - one Ianthe isn’t prepared for.

“Apparently, enough to have you gagging for it any day of the week.” It’s shockingly blatant from Gideon, who usually eschews any overt reference to their sexual relationship. The Cavalier is clearly pushing herself to score a hit, and she preens at Ianthe’s bemused pause. 

Gideon must think this is just another of their regularly scheduled verbal-and-physical sparring matches. Sometime soon, perhaps within the month, Harrow’s mouth will quirk into that incorrigible lopsided smirk for the last time. Ever. How very _tragic_.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ianthe manages, recovering some of her previous momentum. “You’re nothing more to me than a proxy for my darling Harry. And a poor one at that.”

“Interesting you should say that, because I’ve definitely been thinking of your sister this whole time. Although realistically I imagine she’s a lot better than you are in bed.” Along with this line, Gideon’s demeanor gains a keen edge, seemingly in anticipation of victory. Predatory self-satisfaction contorts Harrow’s sharp features in a way that’s almost authentic to the face’s original owner. She’s - what, baiting Ianthe to charge her, so she can slip past to the exit? It’s a classic tactic, with reasonable chances of success … in a fight between two non-necromancers. 

Good then, let Griddle imagine she has the upper hand - it will only make her ultimate subjugation that much more enjoyable. Because with Gideon’s last remark, Ianthe has regained her grasp on the familiar thread of her rage. She pulls now, long and slow, encouraging it to unravel further. 

“Fine,” Ianthe says, tone dismissive. “You’ve deflected long enough. If you won’t tell me whatever you’re plotting, I’ll have to investigate myself.” She disengages from their standoff by bending to the floor, blatantly offering her undefended back to her opponent as she reaches for one of the scattered binders. The obvious bait must make Gideon suspicious of foul play (and she should be) because it takes several seconds before there’s two whip-cracks of sound and Ianthe feels twin concussive, searing pains in her shoulder and back. 

She wasn’t lying about having never been shot before, and it is quite interesting, actually. The damage she catalogues with her necromancy is wildly different from the clean piercing stab of a blade: The sheer kinetic force bursts into her, chaotically rearranging not only the veins, muscle and bone in its direct path, but scrambling the tissues in an impressive radius surrounding its trajectory as well. Unexpected, but she **had** been braced for _something_ similar. She has gambled well, too, because the ammunition is evidently simple metal, with no herald components. The distraction of being shot certainly isn’t sufficient to stop Ianthe from closing the jaws of her trap.

When she blinks her eyes open once more, Gideon is already careening toward the exit, hastily scooping up one of the binders on her way. Ianthe watches from beneath the curtain of hair that had fallen into her face when she’d flinched with the bullets’ impacts. She allows Nav to get past one door, then nearly past the second and into the corridor, so she can really taste freedom, before Ianthe sucks in a quick breath between her teeth and lets loose.

Great bands of sinewy muscle and tendon unfurl from the floor and walls like the tentacles of some huge long-extinct cephalopod, looping around the fleeing Cavalier’s knees and ankles and dragging her back over the inner threshold into the cramped little room. Gideon cries out in horrified rage - Harrow’s thin voice raised in a guttural shout - and tries to kick them off using only her feet. Her hands are still clutching the precious cargo she seems dead set on keeping from Ianthe.

That won’t do. Ianthe corkscrews the sinews farther up, enveloping each of Harrow’s skinny legs, and relishes how she can feel Harrow’s own muscles straining counter to her constructs. She’s stronger than Ianthe remembers - Gideon’s lifestyle must be starting to pay off. Of course it’s not enough to escape her bonds. 

Ianthe casually extends another red-pink appendage out to curl around the handle of the inner access hatch. She makes certain the Harrow’s eye-line is fixed precisely on the room’s sole exit before she slams the door shut. Ianthe can hear the hiss of mechanised bolts sliding home - the door is not locked, but it won’t be quick to open. The cruiser’s built-in engineering access ports are designed to contain any potential breaches, fires or high-pressure leaks, after all. Her trapped Cavalier curses inventively (Ianthe is actually impressed), and cranes around laboriously, aiming the gun awkwardly back over her shoulder.

Ianthe rapidly weaves a gossamer pink net of thin interlacing muscle fibers in the space between the ceiling and Harrow’s head, and releases it gently down. It billows over Harrow’s body, adhering to her contours like strands of spider’s silk, blanketing her.

It’s not fast enough to stop Gideon from getting another three shots off, though. Ianthe has to duck, even as she’s tethering the edges of her mesh construct to the floor for leverage to crush Gideon downward. The bullets hit something behind Ianthe that pings angrily, then produces an ominously loud hissing sound. Harrow’s perpetually pinched face goes tighter still, golden eyes fixed despairingly over Ianthe’s shoulder at whatever important machinery she has just wounded. Despite all her impressive resistance, Nav slowly begins to collapse beneath Ianthe’s weighted net.

Ianthe throws her head back and laughs aloud in sheer glee. Gideon never fails to deliver _peak_ entertainment. 

“I thought we agreed, no freaky Lyctor shit when we’re sparring,” the Cavalier protests. Her left knee buckles, and she jerks painfully but bafflingly manages to remain vaguely upright.

“This isn’t a practice bout, Griddle. I have a project I need you for today, and it doesn’t seem like you’re interested in cooperating nicely.”

“Fucking necromancers always fighting dirty,” Gideon mutters venomously. Ianthe snorts, and otherwise doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. After a luxurious moment, she collects herself, and tosses her wayward hair behind one shoulder. Gideon is panting audibly now with effort, pained by the force bearing down on her. Time to tie this up, as it were. 

Ianthe stands, adjusting her bullet-torn blouse and as she does she weaves thick ropes of muscle. These will replace the cocoon covering her captive with something that’s less theatrical, but aesthetically tidier. The white and red lines of muscle she winds mercilessly about Harrow’s neck, shoulders and wrists, extending the loose ends of the restraints to the floor behind Harrow’s half-crouched form. Ianthe fixes them in place with rivets of tendon and cartilage, and then all at once, _contracts_ the muscle filaments. 

Gideon can do nothing to resist. She crumples to the floor on her back, and Ianthe’s construct instantly drags Harrow’s limbs into a helplessly open x shape, as if she’s doing star jumps... except horizontal. Her skinny arms are pinioned above her head, legs extended taught in a wide v, and all of her looks entirely defeated. Gideon’s attempts at outraged flailing don’t even register against the knotted muscle fibers that bind her.

Ianthe ambles over, steps one foot over Harrow’s chest so she straddles the prone girl, and squats down to pluck that little handheld notetaking device from Gideon’s stubborn fingers. Gideon holds tight, which is mildly annoying, so Ianthe tightens the restraint around Harrow’s wrist until the nerves are so compressed the fingers begin to turn blue. She plucks the type-pad out of limp fingers and turns it over, intrigued.

“Don’t-” says Gideon quietly, voice strangled. Ianthe realizes she’s also tightened the ropes across Harrow’s throat. She considers, then decides she’ll leave it for the moment. In case she needs to shut Gideon up to hear herself think.

“Relax, Griddle. While I _am_ curious, I ultimately do not care deeply enough about whatever little game you’re playing to bother sabotaging you. It can’t be as important as you think it is.”

Gideon furrows Harrow’s dark brows and silently mouths something that looks exceedingly rude. Ianthe rolls her eyes.

“How about we make a deal - although this is really only me being generous as you’re in no position to bargain right now. I promise to consider **not** reading this, if you can just lie here and be a good girl for me while I take a look for our Harry.”

At that, Gideon’s entire demeanor changes, amber eyes lighting up, Harrow’s body filling with a different flavor of tension. Gideon is making a wheezing attempt at speech. Ianthe loosens the ropes on Harrow’s throat. Gideon takes a deep gulp of air and then - 

“You know where she is? Oh my god, can you really find her? How? When did you have this breakthrough? It was my dream, wasn’t it! But I didn’t realize you had already-”

“Shhhh, quiet,” interrupts Ianthe. Her hips are fatiguing from the crouch, so she sits down on Harry’s solar plexus. Her bent knees fit conveniently in the other girl’s armpits. “Don’t get so excited, this is just a test run.”

“Okay, okay, I’m chill,” Gideon takes a deep, controlled breath, swallowing down a bright giddiness that Ianthe is entirely unfamiliar with. Like that laugh earlier. It seems there are some buttons of Gideon’s that she hasn’t yet discovered how to push. Gideon frowns suddenly, interrupting Ianthe’s thoughts with, “Why all this weird bondage drama then? Like, isn’t this a _little_ excessive? If you’d just told me it was about Harrow, I would have cooperated.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Griddle. It has taken me three days to hunt you down. I wasn’t going to just let you walk out of here. Or are you telling me that by saying ‘cooperate’ you mean you would have marched obediently all the way back to my quarters with me? Because we could still go do this somewhere more private if you’re willing to leave right now.” Gideon’s gaze darts tellingly to the nearest of her binders; even she’s not confident enough in her station as Teacher’s favorite to leave the detritus of some covert endeavor (that might or might not be actively insulting to God) unattended for just anyone to stumble across.

“No thanks. I’ve read enough murder mystery comics to know better. First rule of getting captured by a psychopath: never let her transport you to a secondary location.”

“That’s what I thought. So we’re doing this here, now, because in order to hunt Harrowhark down, I require uninterrupted physical contact with her body.”

“For what, moral support?”

“No, you egg. I’ve decided to try searching for Harry as one would for a _revenant_. I don’t know what else you slept through in creche school, but in case it was literally everything, that means I’ll be tracing the thanergetic link between the physical remains and their previous occupant. Of course, all deaths create such ties, at least loosely. It’s why spirit summoning is most effective when you use a close genetic relative’s blood. But in the case of revenants, the effect is greatly intensified by apopneumatic shock; the soul being forced out with sudden violence in turn generates a stronger rebound effect - a more extreme stretch in the elastic, as it were.”

Gideon is staring at her blankly, and Ianthe acknowledges to herself that she’s most likely wasting her breath right now. Moments like this are enough to make her genuinely miss Augustine, paternalistic condescension and all. Hell, even a common necromancer could at least apprehend the groundbreaking implications of tracking a revenant anchored to a **living** body. It’s at once elementary in its practical application and radical in its theoretical underpinnings; so inane that it’s brilliant. But Gideon can’t appreciate that.

“Just try to keep up,” she orders.

This is why it will be so refreshing once Harrowhark Nonagesimus is at her side again. _There_ is a mind capable of enough unorthodox intellectual invention and raw ambitious temerity to rival Ianthe’s own. Until their reunion, Ianthe accepts that sometimes she just needs to verbalize her thinking to another warm body, even if the necromantic aptitude of her audience is about equivalent to that of an apple.

“We are assuming for the purposes of this experiment that some functional equivalent of Harrow’s ‘death’ - probably Mercymorn stabbing her - caused her soul to momentarily flee her body. This vacancy was what invited _you_ to rear your ugly little head in the first place. Which explains the total absence of Lyctoral magic traces left by her in the River; Harry isn't swimming. She is floating passively attached to a tether, and we’re holding the other end of the rope. A dash of Sixth psychometry, some spirit magic sensibilities, and I’ve settled on an approach that I think will lead us to- are you seriously going to keep repeating every word I say?”

“-ord I say?” Gideon finishes in echo. Despite the fact that Ianthe has used similar tactics to get under other peoples’ skin ( **many** times) she has developed no resistance to their irritation when turned against her. “What,” says Nav, “I was just trying to keep up.”

“Obnoxious. No wonder Harry was so quick to erase her memories of you.” Gideon’s expression shutters, and Ianthe feels a fleeting twinge of contrition. 

Then Gideon rallies. “Pot, kettle. You’ve been blowing air up your own ass for five minutes, and still haven’t managed to answer a simple question about why all this ‘pioneering research’ requires you to throw gross kinky flesh strings at me.”

“Oh,” says Ianthe blithely, “the restraints are a failsafe; any interruption to our physical contact while I’m in the River would scuttle the whole enterprise. Also, I’m not about to go off and leave my unconscious body in your hands without _some_ precautions in place for my own safety.”

“First, bullshit, I would never sabotage Harrow’s rescue just to be petty. I’m not _you_. Second, won’t fucking Naberius Turd be in your body? And thirdly, I’m choosing to take extremely personal offence to that last bit,” says Gideon, sounding genuinely miffed. “Can you please just admit you pick fights on purpose because you get off on the power trip?” 

Ianthe laughs.

“Only if you admit that you **_love_** it when I do,” she says. Gideon flushes dramatically at that and breaks eye contact, giving up or perhaps forgetting her other unanswered question; she’s predictable as clockwork. And no, Ianthe confirms to herself, she is still not bored of making the Cavalier squirm. 

“Fantastic, it’s a deal then,” Ianthe says, and reaches behind herself to grab Harrow’s thighs. She drags the legs up until Harrow’s feet are on the floor, knees bent up at a convenient angle, and re-attaches the tendon restraints around Harrow’s ankles to fix them in this new position. Ianthe scootches back, re-settling herself on Harrow’s lower belly and leaning back to rest her back against Harrow’s thighs, then reaches down and ungently yanks the hem of Gideon’s tunic up. The transparent hair follicles in her warm brown skin respond instantly to the frigid air, constricting into goosebumps that Ianthe can feel as she presses both palms flat against Harrow’s belly. 

Gideon yelps, but before she can say anything else, Ianthe interrupts. “Get comfortable, because I might be gone for a while.”

“Tell Harrow I’m sor-” Gideon begins, but Ianthe is already closing her eyes and dropping down into the dark bloody waters of the River.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall thank your lucky stars I couldn't find a way to work in a description of the crossbridges between actin and myosin filaments. God help me I _tried_. And then got sidetracked reading about sarcomeres.
> 
> Anyway, I'm just trying to throw some added educational value in there along with my graphic descriptions of fisting, like you do.
> 
> \--  
> ALSO I JUST RWALIZED AS I WAS POSTING - this looks like it's going in a tentacle porn direction??? Which, spoiler, not at ALL what I had planned but now that I'm reading my own writing back...huh


	8. This won't get any easier-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > When they were twelve years old, a host of recently built, gargantuan Second House troop carriers from Trentham had docked at the orbital spaceport tethered above Ida’s capitol for a fleet-week style christening. Of course, Corona had _insisted_ on sneaking out to see the flagship Pallikari up close. In Ianthe’s memory, the bright-faced officers swarming the concourse at the base of the space tether when she and her sister arrived had been ancient, decrepit. Now Ianthe realizes many of those newly minted recruits, so proud of their lifelong (and afterlife-long) commitment to serve the Emperor Undying, were years younger than she is now in her early twenties. She wonders how many of the faces she saw that day still exist, and how many others might float past her down here in the River, forgotten by the living world before waterlogging and decay could render their distinguishing features unrecognizable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Gideon and Ianthe will kick and punch and smooch each other again soon, okay? Just, hold my beer for a minute while I do this thing

Brackish, bloody water surrounds her, tugging her in all directions at once, its spiraling current the familiar caress of a childhood enemy. As usual, the River is welcoming in its hostility. 

In all its scramble to slap a mask of perceptible sensory details onto stimuli whose true nature is incomprehensible to the human psyche, Ianthe’s mind cannot decide whether the River is colder (because it’s _the River_ ) or warmer (because the cruiser is drifting through the literal depths of space with no climate control) than the room where she had abandoned her physical body. Paradoxically, she feels both sensations at once. By now, Ianthe is quite practiced with relinquishing her compulsion to catalogue and comprehend each element of her surroundings, but early on in forays into the River she had been consumed by a shrieking dread of not _knowing_ what was real, what she should respond to, and what posed a legitimate threat. Now she accepts that _every_ threat has the potential to be legitimate and that she need not preemptively defend herself against any eventuality until it actually happens, lest she become paralyzed with preparation.

Ianthe reaches out for the single twist and eddy of current that is _Harrowhark_ , drawing on the awareness of her hands on warm skin in another existence to help her search. It takes a moment, but then _there it is_. Months spent looking for complex lyctoral magic traces, and all she ever actually needed to do was touch Harrow’s body. Shamefully simple. Still, this private embarrassment can’t quench the satisfaction of finally discovering the thread that will lead her through this maze. Ianthe doesn’t allow her elation to delay her, though. She begins to pull herself hand over hand along the thread toward Harrow’s soul, finding satisfaction in the familiarity of the feeling. But as she pulls, the connection seems to dissolve in her grasp - strange. Ianthe refocuses, squinting through the gloom of the River. She finds Harrow’s tether, follows it, and again she _loses it_. This time, though, to her surprise, she notes the distinct impression of an intersection of some sort. But as quickly as she senses this branching, it is gone and her hands are empty once more. It is as if she’s only found one half of the thread, and her section alone is not strong enough to carry her to her destination - she is missing a piece here. But that’s no concern, Ianthe is a genius; she will figure it out.

She reaches out a third time, determined to get her bearings and then trace the second path back from the thread’s division, until she finds what is evidently a missing component of Harrow’s anchor. Harrow’s essence hums under her fingers. Thin as it is, it still exudes a familiar prickly heat. Ianthe widens all her senses, opening herself to even the smallest trace that might help her track down the source of this secondary thread.

A shred of long hair brushes past her face, catches on her earlobe. It is close enough for Ianthe to perceive the near-luminescent blond coloring through the murk of decaying organic-matter particulate that clouds the water, and Ianthe immediately breaks all her own rules to turn and follow the strand of hair to its source. It is, in fact, attached to a head - which is itself attached tenuously to only three cervical vertebrae and nothing else. Empty, worm-eaten eye sockets stare mockingly at Ianthe, from a face that is mostly bone with only ragged clumps of filmy, over-hydrated skin tenaciously clinging to cheek and forehead. The masseter and temporalis muscles on the right hand side are still intact enough to keep the gaping jaw from ripping itself away from the skull, but the left is almost completely disintegrated and the mandible hangs at a dramatic angle, as if caught forever in a fatally scandalized expression of shock. Mats of blond hair curl through the open mouth, tangling between its remaining uneven teeth like writhing snakes. Harrow’s thread is entirely lost now.

Ianthe tells herself to stop, to focus, but doesn’t listen (she never liked being told what to do anyway) and swiftly reaches out to snatch the skull out of the current. Sheltering it in the eddy created by her body’s presence in the water, Ianthe swiftly reaches up to brush the hair away from the left temple. The swatch of scalp housing the follicles of the hair she’s just tugged on peels agreeably free from the skull and Ianthe has to violently shake her fingers to disentangle them as the chunk of hair and flesh is drawn swirling away into the darkness of the water. It may have caught her attention, but the hair isn’t what she cares about. 

She cradles the disembodied head carefully in her right hand and brings it closer to her face, ignoring the way the mouth tries weakly to bite her. (The mad denizens of the River don’t bother trying to eat you when you’re traveling sans flesh, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be irritated if you poke and prod at them too much. Navigating the River is much like living in a city or large household, and Ianthe had learned from both settings how to ensure she’s being overlooked until she needs to be otherwise.) 

Restraining the petulant skull, Ianthe examines the suture where left sphenoid meets left temporal bone. She’s looking for a certain telltale dent, but it’s difficult to make out in the diffuse gloom.

When they were twelve years old, Corona had convinced her to sneak out into the port to explore a real military operation, up close. A host of recently built, gargantuan Second House troop carriers from Trentham had docked at the orbital spaceport tethered above Ida’s capitol so that their crews could revel in a fleet-week style christening. After this, they were scheduled to set out on their first deployment, the ships (and a majority of the fresh cohort recruits) permanently bidding farewell to Dominicus’ dim and constant light.

The concourse at the base of the space tether had been swarming with cohort whites and reds. Semi-organized ranks of soldiers in crisp uniforms debarked the elevator from the station, while other clusters of bright-faced officers crowded out of small atmospheric transport shuttles. In her memory, all the soldiers were ancient, older even than Babs, who was always lording his two years’ seniority over her and Corona. Now Ianthe realizes many of the fresh recruits, so ready to preemptively revel in the rewards they were due in exchange for their lifelong (and afterlife-long) commitment to serve the Emperor Undying, were all younger than she is now in her early twenties. Many of them couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. She wonders, of the faces she saw that day, how many still exist, and how many others might float past her down here, forgotten by the living world before waterlogging and decay even rendered the distinguishing features of their spirit-corpses unrecognizable.

Coronabeth had, of course, wanted to get up to the space docks to personally see the fleet in all its newborn glory. Ianthe had, of course, dutifully masterminded the optimal method to make this a reality. Ianthe doesn’t recall, now, exactly how they had managed to convince that Lieutenant to sneak them up to see the flagship Pallikari. Corona, probably. Her figure had filled out early; she’d started bleeding when they were nine and by twelve she had already mastered the charming wink, hip-cocked stance, and that sultry pout that could get the two of them past almost any _human_ barrier, whether through interest, charmed bemusement, or unease. Ianthe had had no such self-possession, and clung to Corona’s heels like her shadow, secreting her pubescent body away in the same draping necromancer’s robes that their mother ordered tailored to hug Coronabeth’s curves.

Ianthe **does** remember the display panels that had papered the climber’s walls; they were designed to emulate windows, without the pointless risk of installing actual transparent plating. She remembers watching Ida’s horizon bend from familiar flat line to alien curve, as if melting under some incomprehensible heat. Sense memories have always been her strongest retrieval cues. It is with crystalline clarity that Ianthe recalls the nauseating feeling of her necromancy peeling away from her, a layer shed for every ten miles above the planet’s surface, like petals rotting off of a dying flower. Caught up in her sister’s excitement, she had neglected the basic fact that necromancy doesn’t work in space. Coronabeth had clearly forgotten as well and unlike Ianthe, she remained blissfully unaware during the ascent. Of course, Corona couldn’t be blamed; she had not received a visceral thanergetic reminder of her own, and in fact had no indication that anything might be amiss other than the vice grip of Ianthe’s fingers in hers. And Ianthe hadn’t said anything, tongue stilled by a childish desire not to appear effette in front of Corona, who already cast herself as Ianthe’s champion more than was strictly necessary.

She remembers sweating, grinding her teeth, striving for an air of relaxed composure as she stood between her sister and the delightedly preening Lieutenant. They were in a cordoned off ‘under renovation’ section of the orbital station’s viewing deck, looking out at the docks. The darkly menacing Pallikari crouched before them like a somnolent leviathan, graceful bulk suspended in open space by a delicate webbed vasculature of mechanical docking arms and airtight human access gangways. It was a formidable and awe inspiring sight; it ignited Ianthe’s own burgeoning ambition, despite her space-addled mind. 

Ianthe still blames this transfixed disorientation for her absolute failure to perform appropriate damage control during the next critical moments. As the three of them marveled, Corona finally and irrevocably exhausted their good favor by demanding an onboard tour. Their Lieutenant balked, protesting that it was one thing to show a couple noble kids the Emperor’s flagship from a civilian concourse, and another to invite unknown potential saboteurs into the heart of a military operation; if they were discovered, the Lieutenant could lose her life, or worse, her job. Corona had been deeply affronted, and before Ianthe could stop her, the absolute nincompoop had explained that they were not just ‘some nobles,’ but in fact the twin heirs to House Tridentarius with all the political heft their status entailed. She’d asserted with typical royal hauteur that the cohort officer should capitulate if she knew what was good for her and her career. The soldier, in visibly mounting distress and unwilling to gamble her appointment in the cohort on the dubious word of an unidentified twelve-year-old, had not capitulated. Things still might have been salvageable at that point, but then Corona, the **idiot** , had gone and threatened the Lieutenant with _necromancy_. 

Ianthe hadn’t even had the space of a breath to intercede in the entire exchange, and by the time she’d collected her own wits it was too late. Perhaps they might still have walked away, ridden back down the space elevator, leaving the Lieutenant to assume they had been lying about their pedigree, that they had been some nobodies from a lesser court family trying to bluff their way into adventure. Of course, the Lieutenant could easily pull up a dossier on house Tridentarius to confirm their identities any time she got curious. 

But even then, she might never fully grasp all of the possible implications of Coronabeth Tridentarius, who was allegedly a viciously talented young necromancer, threatening to unleash her powers _in space_. The most parsimonious interpretation of Corona’s ultimatum would be a simple insult: it _should_ be an affront, to both Cohort training and the soldier’s own intellect, that the Tridentarius heirs thought they could intimidate her with such an obvious bluff. Had Ianthe been her usual self, she would have steered the Lieutenant in this direction immediately...but instead she had stood, silent and useless, allowing the soldier’s mind to metastasize any number of dangerous ideas in the virulent silence following Corona’s words.

Without Ianthe’s guidance, the Lieutenant was free to explore the possibility of Corona’s sincerity. If luck were on Ianthe’s side, the Lieutenant might have found the logical conclusion (that one Tridentarius twin was _not_ **actually** a necromancer at all) too far-fetched and potentially libelous to bother repeating aloud. But after only a brief twelve years of existence, Ianthe had already come to know firsthand that lady luck preferred to be her enemy. 

No, if she were incisive enough to realize the truth, the Lieutenant would certainly out the two of them publicly, sell the information, or even attempt to blackmail house Tridentarius for personal gain.

Ianthe wasn’t concerned about scandal - her family might prefer the limelight, but Ianthe knew well that being disdained came with its own set of unique advantages. However, on a personal scale the stakes for Ianthe were cataclysmic; blackmail, pointed questions, or even a popular rumor might render Coronabeth’s very _life_ forfeit. 

When they had begun official necromantic training at age four, Mother had conveyed in no uncertain terms that she would prefer to lose her favorite heir in a tragic freak accident rather than allow Corona’s necromantic aptitude to be critically examined in the public eye. Ianthe had lived in terror of this truth ever since, almost more than Corona whose conviction was occasionally diluted by the ‘golden child’ treatment she received from their mother in public.

On that off-limits, ‘under renovation’ observation deck of the capitol’s spaceport, Ianthe’s sympathetic nervous system finally jolted her cognitive processes back into existence, and she acknowledged what must be done. The necessary course of action had been...distasteful, difficult to convince Corona of, and far from _easy_ with only Ianthe’s sorry physical stature, a fancy glass bottle of liquor they’d pilfered from the cellars to drink during their outing, and Coronabeth’s small decorative dagger as weapons. Still, the pair of them had been aided by seamless coordination, the element of surprise, and the misguided sentimental reluctance of their trained fighter opponent to use real force against children.

As they haphazardly bundled the Lieutenant’s unconscious body into a small construction supply airlock in the abandoned concourse where the soldier had so hospitably brought them to stargaze, Ianthe swore vehemently that she would never again in her entire life trust Corona to take the lead on anything of consequence. Then Ianthe had sworn some more, just in general, channeling her desperate, swollen rage into the airlock’s control keypad. Next to her, Corona had slumped unprotesting against the wall, crying silently. She was occupied with attempting to staunch the generously bleeding wound at her temple, courtesy of the hapless Lieutenant’s cohort regulation sword hilt. After Ianthe finally found the override that would allow her to depressurize the chamber and open the outer hatch into empty vacuum (despite its occupant) she had had to shake Corona out of a hypotensive stupor.

They had made the clandestine trip home without further incident, playing up their injured and disheveled appearance for pity favors from chivalrous cohort officers. Ianthe had necromantically stabilized both her and her sister’s wounds the instant they descended from geostatic orbit back into the planet’s aura, but she had purposefully ensured the dent in Coronabeth’s skull remained exactly where it was, unchanged, as a reminder.

Now in the gloom of the River’s swirling waters, she squints and tilts this remnant of what was once a living soul at all angles, trying to determine without a shadow of a doubt that she sees no divot in the osseous plates. The light refracts _just so_ \- a shallow depression? Every muscle in Ianthe’s neck and chest seizes. She swallows down the irrational urge to freeze, as if not-knowing could ever change or delay the truth of the universe. She closes her eyes, deciding that vision alone cannot be trusted, and runs gentle, flesh-covered fingers up along the zygomatic arch, past it to the temporal bone. The gesture is an inadvertently tender caress. But Ianthe allows herself to linger; the only witnesses to her moment of sentimental weakness are mad ghosts, after all. What are they going to do, tease her about it?

Then her fingers locate that exact familiar spot … and all of the tension drains from her; there is no divot.

She tosses the decaying blond head back into the River’s current, abruptly disgusted by it. The feeling of _relief_ is so viscous it clogs her nostrils and throat, and Ianthe needs desperately to breathe. She closes her eyes and drifts toward the surface.

Suddenly, she is back in the engine maintenance room, and Harrow is staring up at her, expression a discomfiting amalgam of quizzical discomfort and restive anticipation. Ianthe shakes her head violently, and takes three deep gasping breaths in quick succession. 

Under her, Gideon - _not Harrow, **Gideon** , how had she made that mistake?_ \- shifts her hips uncomfortably, gaze flitting to Ianthe’s heaving chest and then back up to her face. “Hey, uhh, you’re back, right?” Ianthe stares at her coldly, consolidating her breathing down to a tensely closed mouth and flaring nostrils. “Ok, ok! So you’re back, got it, so-” and this next comes so fast and continuous it’s almost a single word, “whatdidHarrowsaydidsheseemokaywhencanyoubringherback?”

“I didn’t get to ask,” Ianthe says, with curt finality. “Because you interrupted my process.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---
> 
> TBC very soon, I accidentally fed this chapter too much and it grew too big and strong so now it's multiple chapters.
> 
> Leave kudos if you hate all this plot bullshit I'm doing and wish I would just skip to the sex scene that obviously happens next, comment if you hate Third House flashbacks in particular and want me to cease and desist. thx


	9. -now that your heart is beating in my hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There’s something so electrifying about being the one responsible for Gideon’s ambivalent slide into debauchery these past weeks. Sure, Ianthe wishes she could eke a little more active _participation_ out of the girl. Or failing that, a more accurate performance; it would be nice to play out imagined scenarios with a more convincing Harrowhark understudy. But at the end of the day, keeping this gallant, loyal, and unwillingly libidinous Cavalier off-balance and desperate requires a radically different touch than that which she would use on Nonagesimus. And it’s a touch Ianthe relishes the opportunity to apply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: dubious consent and mention of violence (again). This is a very explicit installment.
> 
> More detail: restraints, face-sitting, stepping on people, no safe words, just general non-negotiated kink. Ianthe’s Daily Special (except nothing else is ever served at this restaurant): emotional manipulation and gaslighting.

“I didn’t get to ask,” Ianthe says, with curt finality. “Because you interrupted my process.”

“Literally I didn’t?” Gideon is affronted. “I’ve been lying here, courtesy of your very chill and laissez-faire **bondage scenario** ,” a flicker of embarrassed self-reproach crosses Gideon’s face as she says this, but it’s gone in an instant as she gamely continues, “With you staring down at me like an evil statue the whole time! I couldn’t have interrupted if I _wanted to_! And how many times do I have to tell you I have _no_ desire to stop you from bringing Harrow back?”

Ianthe scowls at this. The norepinephrine and adrenaline levels in her physical body are increasing rapidly as her pituitary gland scrambles to physicalize the distress her mind brought back from the River. She doesn’t have Mercymorn’s clinical mastery (yet), but she could probably slow the hormone cascade with a little effort. She doesn’t bother - why struggle for repression when expression offers a superior emotional release?

There’s no point in going back to search for Harrow today, Ianthe decides. Certainly the existence of a secondary anchor proves Ianthe’s speculation correct; Harrow had _purposefully_ sequestered herself somewhere difficult to find, because Harrow is intent on ceding her body to Gideon, permanently. Ianthe must reapproach the anchor issue with the knowledge that she’s actively playing _against_ Harrowhark. The next step is clear; she will look into that other thread from outside the River, identify and hopefully acquire its physical source, and try again when she has a comprehensive map of Harrow’s defenses at her disposal. 

Arriving at this plan is a form of progress; today should be considered a success. Ianthe had tested a hypothesis and learned where she was on the right track, and where her hypothesis needed tweaking. She should applaud herself for slogging through these troubleshooting efforts (rather than succumbing to her lazy habit of jumping straight from theory to final application) but unfortunately after that blonde corpse, satisfaction is not accessible to her. She can only seem to feel -

No, she’s not feeling _lonely_ , what a ridiculous thought. She’s not even alone in this room, and anyway Ianthe Tridentarius does not _require_ external companionship. She pursues it only as a hedonistic indulgence. She already possesses the intrinsic capacity to meet all of her own fundamental needs. Ianthe requires nothing from anyone else, save perhaps a convenient outlet for catharsis. 

Serendipitously, her recent favorite outlet is lying prone and helpless beneath her. As if she can hear Ianthe’s thoughts, Gideon redoubles her restive squirming before settling in a position functionally no different than before.

“Something happened in the River, huh?” posits Gideon, eyebrows raised. There’s that uncharacteristic perceptiveness _again_ , shocking Ianthe. It has become an undeniable pattern. Between that and Gideon’s side-project, Ianthe must reluctantly acknowledge that she might possibly have maybe underestimated the Ninth Cavalier just the teeniest bit. This misapprehension is hardly Ianthe’s fault though; back at Canaan house the girl had demonstrated little independent initiative for anything other than getting to the dining hall early at mealtimes, and dying melodramatically.

But it seems Gideon is capable of slightly more, given proper motivation. This complexity of character would explain why their push and pull has continued to command Ianthe’s attention even though the nominal ‘hunt’ had concluded the first time they’d fucked. However, because there’s no such thing as having your cake and eating it too, the same quality that makes Gideon so entertaining also presents an unfortunate risk to Ianthe. If she’s waiting to bring Harrow back, she really must hasten the process of breaking the Cavalier entirely to her will, before Nav starts getting _too_ clever for her own good.

Ianthe reaches an arm back to brace herself on Harrow’s bent knees, dismounts from Harrow’s torso, and begins to stand on stiff legs. She is facing away from Harrow, and is thus entirely unprepared when poor, helpless Gideon (still pinioned by Ianthe’s braided ligament and tendon) follows up her prior insight with another stinging question; “are… Ianthe, are you okay?”

“So solicitous - are you trying to butter me up for something?” Ianthe wonders disdainfully. “Of course I’m okay. If you must know, I’m better than that, because I _did_ find Harry’s thread. In fact, I came quite close to locating her before I was so rudely disturbed.”

“I still don’t see how I-” Gideon protests

“You wouldn’t fucking see, though, Griddle,” Ianthe barks over her shoulder. “You’re out of your depth. There’s one person in this room facile with- no, baseline capable of- spirit magic. It’s not you.”

“Fine then, sorry for ruining everything or whatever,” says Gideon. “I just wanna know when we are going back to actually get her?”

“Ah, finally a non-idiotic question,” Ianthe says, turning back around to look down at Gideon from her full height. Harrow’s neck is straining slightly against its immobilizing bonds as the Cavalier attempts to face Ianthe as well. “Not today, I’ve decided. My blouse is looking a little more… ‘distressed’ than I’d prefer it to- thanks very much for shooting me- and I’d like to look my best when I welcome dear Nonagesimus back. But I can tell you this; _we_ won’t be going anywhere. When I do return to the River, you’ll be safely unconscious.”

“What is that, a threat?”

“If you’d like. I need Harrow’s physical body as an anchor. I don’t need an uppity, backwoods-trained, knock-off Cavalier there to bungle the whole operation.” Ianthe lifts one booted foot and digs her heel into the exposed softness of Harrow’s belly where Ianthe had rucked up the tunic to make skin to skin contact before her earlier dive. She receives a small grunt from Gideon in response. 

Ianthe is really sick of discussing the River, she needs a change of subject. She leans slightly more weight onto her foot, but doesn’t bother watching Gideon’s expression. Instead, she looks around, taking stock of the room. The pock mark traces of bullets in the far wall are still shyly hissing steam, although it doesn’t seem any more severe than it had been when Ianthe went under. 

And then there’s the binders, still strewn all over the floor. Ianthe fixes her gaze on the one Gideon had been flipping through when Ianthe first entered, the one she had squeezed free from Gideon’s numb fingers in that final struggle, and grins. “No, you know what, I think for the rest of today I’d actually like to learn more about your little extracurriculars.”

Beneath her, Harrow’s abdominal muscles lever up against the weight of her foot with sudden elastic tension. 

“You said-” 

“I said your project was unimportant, not that I’m not curious.”

“But we agreed if I cooperated-” 

“Come on, Griddle, we’re _friends_ by now aren’t we? We’re close enough that I’ve had my entire hand inside you. Shouldn’t we share our secrets with one another?” Ianthe pouts, sounding wounded. Nav gapes for a minute, but recovers remarkably fast.

“First; we’re not fucking friends-” 

“We ARE _fucking_ friends, though,” Ianthe points out helpfully. Gideon doesn’t pause.

“-and second; I know your kind, Ianthe. You don’t respect rules like ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ If you ever miraculously manage to develop a close bond with some poor sod - my condolences to them - they still won’t hear a peep about _your_ secrets,” the Cavalier spits. No more River talk, **and** she’s piqued. Now this is more like it.

Ianthe shrugs. “I’ve never been put off by double standards, so sue me,” she says, and puts her full body weight into the foot on Gideon’s solar plexus, vaulting her other leg over Harrow’s body. That shuts Nav up for the few seconds it takes Ianthe to bend down and scoop the binder up from its resting place on the floor beside Harrow’s outstretched arm. She peels the heavy plastic edges open, revealing what looks like another collection of star charts and…

Ianthe, delighted, comprehends exactly what the instructions are just as Gideon regains her breath, “I’ve known mostly shitty people in my life, but you’re a next level bitch.” The Cavalier’s voice sounds only slightly strained. There’s enough dry repulsion in her tone to wrest Ianthe’s attention away from the flimsy in her hands, though.

“Ambitious plans, Griddle. You know this will never work, right?” Ianthe asks, looking down at Harrow’s face. Her own mood is improving by the second. She thinks she sees the beginnings of angry tears blurring Gideon’s amber eyes, but her expression remains stony.

“I’ve never been put off by impossible problems, so sue me,” Gideon retorts. Ianthe is shocked at how level it sounds. Her necromantic connection to the bindings gives her a wealth of haptics and other sensory information that collectively belie the tone of voice. Gideon is trembling slightly, breathing heavily, Harrow’s body temperature elevated. Whatever her tone, Gideon is _dangerously_ activated right now, and Ianthe is certainly not letting her up off the floor. 

“Why don’t you just let me up off the floor and I can explain my calculations to you _in detail_.” This time, the raw violence in Gideon’s voice is undisguised.

“Gracious of you to offer, but I can read perfectly well with you down there,” disagrees Ianthe. Gideon actually growls - the sound once again cute more than threatening, delivered as it is through Harrow’s voicebox. Ianthe chuckles. She flips through a few more pages of flimsy, relishing the gentle susurrus produced by their turning. She’s not actually bothering to read anymore, she’s doing it solely to goad Gideon. 

By now, the Cavalier must be incandescent with outrage, just how Ianthe likes her best. Setting the tone appropriately really does make the sex that much better. She has to tense her thighs for a moment to reign in her building anticipation. Maybe if she keeps pushing, Gideon will pop a blood vessel - that would be fun.

After another minute, Ianthe looks down from the binder to find Gideon’s yellow eyes fixed on her. It’s not exactly what Ianthe had expected; Gideon is unnaturally silent. Rather than more of that familiar fire, the Cavalier’s gaze is colder than the void outside their ship. Ianthe suppresses a shiver, and raises her eyebrows. This is new. But novelty is entertaining, and Ianthe doesn’t doubt that she’s going to enjoy herself in the end. She always does, with Griddle. 

She discards the binder uncaringly and leans over Gideon, bracing her hands on her own thighs. As soon as she does, Gideon spits in her face.

“Oh,” says Ianthe. With a flick of her necromancy, she tightens Gideon’s restraints, pulling her ankles down and apart so that the backs of Harrow’s bent knees slap to the floor. Gideon sucks in a breath through her teeth, and Ianthe is gratified to catalogue the aggravated flare of her nostrils, the little furrow that creases her brows as her limbs are once more dragged into taut extension. She locks eyes with Gideon and makes no move to straighten from her crouch or wipe the spittle off her cheek as she stares the Cavalier down. Instead, Ianthe waits unspeaking until the artificial gravity successfully entices a tiny accumulation of Harrow’s saliva downward, the droplet landing back in Gideon’s face. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” purrs Ianthe. “You should be _nice_ to me, Griddle. You should be begging me not to tattle on you. You should be offering me bribes. I mean, you’re planning to interfere with our little family cruise; I’m pretty certain Teacher would be a touch put out if he knew.”

“Unbind me and I’ll offer you _loads_. Hell, just off the top of my head I can think of several reasons not to snitch - they’re loaded in my gun right now.”

“Tempting, but I’m afraid I can’t,” Ianthe says, a predatory thrill curling in her stomach - she loves it when Gideon threatens her. “You **can** offer me something else from exactly where you are, though.” 

She stands back up, and steps into the vee of Harrow’s legs. Inspired by the fun she had stepping on the girl earlier, Ianthe nudges the toe box of her boot into Harrow’s crotch. Gideon’s eyes snap shut when Ianthe presses down gently, and her harsh exhale is audible, even over the hissing from the damaged machinery in the wall.

“You keep insisting on this being ‘bondage,’ don’t you? My original intention was just to make you sit still, but now you’ve inspired me with your fixation. Why don’t we both humor each other for a few minutes, and if you’re _really good_ for me I won’t tell daddy about your jump coordinates.”

Harrow’s eye’s remain closed tight, but Gideon bites out, “Why should I even bother racing you when you’re just gonna move the finish line anyway?”

“Hmm,” Ianthe purses her lips. “Valid point. I suppose I’m not really offering you a contest, am I? I’m just letting you know what’s going to happen. Although I’m already fairly certain you won’t object.” This final statement Ianthe emphasizes by rolling her ankle in a rough circular motion. Gideon bites her lip… and this time she doesn’t say anything at all. 

“All that temper, but so eager to submit the instant I touch you. You’ve been imagining this exact scenario since I first tied you up, haven’t you?” After a few beats of silence, Ianthe lifts her foot completely away. Gideon’s eyes flutter open, surprised. “That wasn’t rhetorical, Griddle. If you want me to keep going, you’ll have to answer.” Gideon curls her lip disdainfully, and remains mute. Oh how Ianthe loves a stubborn bitch. 

“Let me rephrase. I know you were trapped here with nothing but your dirty little mind to occupy you while I was in the River. So answer me yes or no: Were you lying here trying not to squirm, testing my restraints just to prove to yourself that you really couldn’t escape?” Ianthe delicately hovers the sole of her boot just above Harrow’s mons, letting it brush feather light against the fabric of Gideon’s trousers. “Have you been reminiscing about your visit to my quarters a few days ago, when I made you come so hard you fainted? Does it turn you on to realize just how helpless, how profoundly at my mercy you are right now?” Gideon shivers visibly. Ianthe waits. 

After a minute, Gideon’s eyes slip shut again. She frowns, the expression tinged with undisguised reproach; she has to be mentally admonishing herself. But then she deflates, going limp in her bonds and mumbling a nearly inaudible, “...a little bit, yeah.” It’s good enough for Ianthe, and she graciously recommences grinding down with her foot. Gideon lets out a soft moan. Ianthe’s prediction had been correct, as usual; bedding the Cavalier is becoming easier with repetition. She is pleasantly surprised to discover, however, that Griddle’s newfound compliance is just as beguiling as her past resistance.

There’s something so electrifying about being the one responsible for Gideon’s ambivalent slide into debauchery these past weeks. Sure, Ianthe wishes she could eke a little more active _participation_ out of the girl. Or failing that, a more accurate performance; it would be nice to play out imagined scenarios with a more convincing Harrowhark understudy. But at the end of the day, keeping this gallant, loyal, and unwillingly libidinous Cavalier off-balance and desperate requires a radically different touch than that which she would use on Nonagesimus. And it’s a touch Ianthe relishes the opportunity to apply.

She settles into a comfortable spiraling pattern with her ankle, and brings her hands up to play with the ties at her waist that belt blouse into trousers. She catalogues the minute changes of expression that flicker across Harrowhark’s angular face - a twitch of the upper lip, a momentary pleading raise of the dark brows - while she waits for Gideon to stop hiding and look back at her.

After a minute or so, Gideon’s eyes crack open to effortful slits, as if her lids are terribly heavy. Ianthe makes sure to hold her gaze as she efficiently tugs open the fastening of her pants. The billowy fabric of her shirt escapes, and she abandons the trousers to grasp the hem with hands crossed. “You know this was one of my favorite shirts you ruined,” she remarks, as she peels the garment up over her head. “And I only had three shirts. But there’s no point keeping this one now, I suppose.” 

The cabin air that hits her bare skin is, unsurprisingly, freezing. Ianthe doesn’t allow herself to shiver, just thoughtlessly extends a shred of her power to accelerate her metabolism and discards the shirt without bothering to look where it falls. Lyctoral bodies do not require conscious effort to maintain homeostasis but she’s indulging in extra comfort today. When they finally touch, she wants Gideon to experience her skin as searing hot compared to the ambient temperature of this small room. 

Ianthe had actually worn undergarments today, but the white band of elasticated cloth holding her breasts in place is hardly much cover. She knows what she looks like, knows without checking that her nipples must show through the translucent fabric, knows the prominent curves of her iliac crest must be visible above the sagging waistband of her pants. Gideon’s eyes are wide now, intent, and a muscle in Harrow’s cheek twitches - how hard is Gideon clenching her jaw?

Ianthe picks up an earlier thread of conversation as she resumes unlacing her trousers. “I’ve been considering this too, actually. Only since the first time you said the word ‘bondage’; credit where credit is due. But that’s plenty of time for _ideas_ to present themselves.” It’s gratifying, the way Gideon’s eyes are following every movement of Ianthe’s fingers. 

Perhaps, on some auspicious day before Harry comes back, Ianthe will finally convince Nav to actually fuck _her_ for once. She lets herself imagine it, extrapolating from that brief instant when Gideon had lost control and touched her during their most recent encounter (and more still from their numerous close-contact scuffles, if she’s entirely honest). There is a natural confidence in those precise fingers, an assertive physicality that Ianthe would quite like to experience in greater _depth_. 

The Cavalier is more kinesthetically present now (while occupying a body that literally does not belong to her) than poor discomfited Harrowhark could ever aspire to be. And so invested in _service_ ; it had been a central component in all of the Harrowhark fantasies Nav had confessed to three days ago. If she could overcome her nonsensical mental block regarding participation and culpability, Griddle would undoubtedly make an intuitive and generous lover.

God, how Ianthe _wants_ to experience that. The laces at her waist are loose enough. She removes her foot from Harrow’s crotch in order to toe off both boots and shimmy down her trousers and underwear. Gideon makes a little beseeching grunt, which Ianthe ignores. She steps out of her pants and kicks them away. 

Nearly naked, she crouches back down over Gideon, digging her knees into the soft flesh of Harrow’s lower belly and balancing herself with one hand on the floor. This time, Griddle doesn’t spit at her. Ianthe is down to the bandeau and socks; thick, noticeably unsexy but even with lyctoral temperature regulation Ianthe can tragically never escape the horrifying spectre of cold toes. The socks have to stay. She doesn’t think Gideon will be bothered. At least, not by the socks.

“So,” says Ianthe, running the tips of her metallic fingers across the swath of Harrow’s exposed abdominal skin, “I have some ideas. If you’d like to request anything in particular, do so now or forever hold your peace. Otherwise, I’m going with my instincts.” She looks up from her hand on Harrow’s stomach, and is gratified at the expression she finds on Gideon’s face. The helpless Cavalier licks her lips, another of those painfully endearing unconscious gestures. Ianthe raises her eyebrows.

“Just… touch me. Please.” Says Gideon. Ianthe restrains herself from too-obviously showing her shock at this newfound brazenness. She complies without comment, tracing her gilded hand up, pushing the hem of the black tunic inexorably further. When she runs into the elastic of Gideon’s sports bra she takes it with her. As the band reaches Harrow’s small breasts, Ianthe takes the opportunity to drag the cloth abrasively back and forth over Harrow’s nipples until the brown skin flushes even darker, irritated. 

Gideon moans, louder and more shameless this time. Clearly Ianthe should have employed restraints sooner, they seem to be some kind of master key. She rucks the bra and tunic up to Harrow’s armpits, and sits back, observing Harrow’s naked torso in its entirety for the first time. The Ninth is ungracefully captivating, her build matching her personality. Her warm, light brown skin covered in gooseflesh from the cold, dark nipples pebbled atop small breasts with large areolas, an outward protruding umbilical scar, the upward reaching points of her lower ribs protectively enclosing the vulnerable concavity of her stomach. 

Beneath Ianthe’s knees, Gideon shifts uncomfortably. “Uhh, can you not? Stare?”

“Why?” asks Ianthe. Gideon flushes, and Ianthe delightedly watches the discoloration spread across Harrow’s sternum; it’s even better than catching the signature blush on an ear or patch of bare neck under the paint.

“It’s creepy. Like... I know you and Harrow had a thing, or whatever, but I’m just mostly trying not to think about the fact she doesn’t know I’m letting you-” Abruptly, Gideon wrenches her neck to the side, looking away, visible fluttering of her diaphragm betraying the distressed acceleration of her breaths. “Actually, I don’t -”

“You’re asking me to cease my sentimental detours and get on with it?” Ianthe interrupts. Letting Gideon think too much about their encounters is never a good idea; she’s getting sloppy in her self-indulgence. Rocking back to sit on the floor between Harrow’s legs, Ianthe retrieves her left boot from where she’d kicked it. The slim bejeweled dagger slides easily from its discreet strap holster inside the boot shaft, and she gets to work slicing open Gideon’s trousers. At the first cold touch of the metal, the Cavalier freezes apprehensively. Of course, she still has plenty to say.

“ **Hey!** Fucking WHAT-”

“Shhh. Just now you could have easily said ‘oh please Ianthe, don’t rip my pants, I’m too much of a little chicken to survive the trip back to my cabin half naked’.” Having carefully cut apart the trouser fastenings and middle seam, Ianthe grips both sides of the fabric and decisively wrenches them apart. The pants split easily under her strength and Ianthe quickly bundles each of the now-separate pantlegs down to Harrow’s knees. Gideon is not wearing underwear, and Ianthe is _almost_ disappointed she doesn’t get to rip more things. “But you had your chance and you didn’t say anything and that’s on you, my dear.”

“That’s not fai-” Gideon begins, but she stops producing actual words when Ianthe darts down and presses her mouth to Harrow’s cunt. She’s been wondering what Harrow tastes like for ages. The flavor is nothing surprising, the expected pleasant blend of tang and musk, but it’s certainly _present_ ; Gideon is **very** wet. Ianthe closes her eyes and hums her satisfaction. This must be her baseline setting, Ianthe decides, considering that just three days ago Gideon had taken Ianthe’s entire hand without requiring a drop of assistive lubrication. It probably helps that Cavaliers are very hydration-focused types.

Harrow’s pubic hair tickles Ianthe’s nose as she explores deeper, running her tongue down the length of Harrow’s cunt to her opening. Above her, Gideon lets out a little helpless “Aahn!”

Ianthe reaches her skeleton hand out to touch one of Harrow’s thighs. Her adductors are straining rhythmically as Nav tries reflexively to close her thighs against the intensity of the sensation. Good. Ianthe licks back up to Harrow’s clit, and begins to test different patterns. Gideon seems to prefer circles to simple side to side, but when Ianthe flattens the tip of her tongue and runs it all the way up and back down the clitoral hood, Griddle actually _squeals_.

Closing her eyes, Ianthe maintains that same vertical motion as she threads her left hand beneath her own chin and presses two fingers teasingly to Harrow’s opening.

“Please-” Gideon gasps, without the slightest prompting, and Ianthe grins into her flesh. She shoves both fingers swiftly in, and is rewarded with a yelp that evolves into a lingering groan as Ianthe immediately curls the digits upwards. “Oh,” says Gideon. “Oh, holy _fuck_.”

Ianthe lifts her head to speak, but continues to move her fingers, establishing a torturously slow pace. “You want me to fuck you hard, Griddle?”

“Yes-” Gideon chokes after a beat.

“Beg me for it.”

“Please,” Gideon says. When this doesn’t produce the desired result, she tries again, this time vaguely perplexed, “...please?” She huffs in exasperation as Ianthe slows her fingers further.

“Not like that. Use my name. And be specific,” Ianthe instructs. There is a suspended moment of petulant silence, and Ianthe almost thinks she won’t do it.

Then Gideon speaks. Harrow’s tremulous voice sounds pathetically shy at first but it quickly increases in assertion, “Please.” Ianthe closes her eyes again; it should turn her on more to imagine Harry is the one really asking this of her. Strangely, she finds her arousal at the idea, although _considerable_ , is not significantly different from how she feels upon seeing panicked desperation swirl in Gideon’s distinctive amber eyes. “Please, **Ianthe**. It feels- good. I want you to fuck me harder, I _need_ you to _fuck_ m-ah!”

Ianthe complies. She dives back in with lips and tongue and Gideon battles to comprehensibly articulate her pleas. Ianthe is mouthing sloppily, three fingers deep and fucking Gideon with brutal force when the already high pitch of Harrow’s voice moaning begins to ratchet up. The telltale flutter of her pelvic floor around Ianthe’s fingers indicates that Gideon is on the precipice of orgasm - and on a sudden optimistic impulse, Ianthe pulls away entirely. Things have been proceeding so smoothly this time, she might as well go for broke.

Ianthe’s fingers slip out of her and Gideon lets out a wounded grunt. She shudders, dazed, and then collects herself enough to level her outrage at Ianthe. “Why the fuck would you- I was doing what you sai-”

Ianthe delivers a cursory slap of her palm to Gideon’s cunt, not hard enough to seriously hurt but certainly hard enough to stun. The Cavalier jolts and bites her lip, staring piteously up at Ianthe. It’s unclear whether she’s mortified, or wants Ianthe to continue.

“Yes,” agrees Ianthe. “You were being nice and obedient, I know. But Griddle, I feel I’ve done a lot for you recently. Don’t you think it’s fair you give me something in return?” 

Gideon stares blankly. Then comprehension (of a sort) dawns. “I can’t -” Her voice strains concerningly with emotion, “You already _know_ I can’t touch myse-”

“We’ve already established that,” Ianthe interjects harshly, heading that off at the pass. A repeat of the same dramatics from last time would seriously dampen her mood. “I’m perfectly happy being the one to decide when you do and do not come,” she catches the way Harrow’s breathing catches at that. 

“All I’m asking you for right now is a dash of very literal reciprocity,” Ianthe says, and uncurls herself from her crouch back to standing. She shakes out the wrist of the hand she had been using to fuck Gideon, and swipes the other forearm across her mouth. The gilded bone does little to improve the mess of slick covering her lips and chin. 

Gideon is following her every gesture, alert. Ianthe watches Gideon slowly catch on as she steps out from between Harrow’s legs and moves to stand over her head, toes digging into the folds of shirt fabric in her armpits. The Cavalier licks her lips, unconsciously, again, and suddenly Ianthe is very, _very_ done with being only the pursuer, with always touching and never being touched herself.

She folds down, resting her knees on either side of Harrow’s head but not sitting back on her heels yet, and reaches down with a sticky hand to run her fingers through that sweaty tangle of heavy dark hair. A little discomfited by her own unthinking tenderness, she quickly speaks. “You mentioned wanting Harry to sit on your face, so I know you’ve at least thought about how this works. I do expect you to compensate for your inexperience with enthusiasm.”

“Oh-” says Nav, rapt, but that’s all she has time for as Ianthe lowers herself. As an afterthought she dissolves the rope around Harrow’s neck, and Gideon surges up to meet her. It is inexpert, as Ianthe had expected. Gideon bumps her with her teeth, and Ianthe hisses in pain, using the hand already in her hair to shove Harrow’s head down to thunk loudly against the floor. Gideon meets her eyes with an apologetic expression and Ianthe loosens her grip. The second time, Nav’s approach is softer. She leads with tentative exploring licks, nuzzling up into Ianthe’s cunt; it’s disorganized and it’s ultimately not an approach that could bring her off, but god it feels _good_.

Ianthe lets her breathing deepen, relaxing into the sensation. She sighs softly when Gideon’s tongue finally circles her clit. The Cavalier is certainly a kinesthetic learner, copying the process Ianthe had used on her almost exactly once she begins to get her bearings. Ianthe has to tilt forward, drop some of her weight into her hands. Her thighs are shaking. It is as if she’s in a shower (not sonic, either, but luxurious water), pleasure pouring over her in unfolding waves. 

She begins rocking herself back on Harrow’s pointy chin in small shifts, letting Gideon chase her clit until she catches the rhythm. When Nav moans audibly into her, the subtle vibration feels incredible, but Ianthe reflexively lifts her hips. It’s silly; as if Harrow’s lyctoral body is capable of asphyxiation. Gideon’s forgotten her lyctorhood as well, because she gasps loudly for air. But almost immediately she cranes her neck back up, trying to reach Ianthe with her mouth. 

Ianthe thinks she hears a mumbled ‘yess’ as she settles back over Harrow’s face. This time, Nav has caught her stride, and she goes at Ianthe with renewed fervor. When Nav points Harrow’s tongue and presses it to the entrance of Ianthe’s cunt, she makes an inadvertent, awkward noise of pleasure. Gideon takes this as encouragement, and fucks up into her diligently. Ianthe realizes she is babbling a string of helpless expletives. 

It has been so long since _anyone_ has touched her this way. There had been a single encounter with an eager-to-please soldier on the Erebos, but he wasn’t terribly competent and besides, he had hardly been Ianthe’s type. She hasn’t been touched by someone who she herself _wants_ in… years, perhaps? How had she gone without this?

Vaguely, Ianthe realizes Gideon is making some noise of protest beneath her. Reluctantly, she sits up. The instant her mouth is free, Gideon stammers, “I want to touch you.”

Ianthe laughs breathlessly. She doesn’t need to be told twice; the tendon and muscle riveting Harrow’s arms to the floor melt into microscopic aerosols. Almost as quickly as this happens, Gideon’s hands are at her waist. Then one slides up Ianthe’s stomach, pressing her backward. Ianthe frowns, but complies with the pressure, leaning back instead of forward. Her abdominal muscles work to hold her in position and she has to support herself with one hand on Harrow’s hip. Ahh, that must be what Gideon’s thinking. Ianthe reaches back, gliding her free hand down Harrow’s stomach over her pubis; she presses the heel of her palm above Harrow’s clitoris, and Gideon retaliates with a single deep lick up the length of her cunt.

“What a view,” observes Gideon, and Ianthe squeaks, startled, as the hand that had pressed her chest backward viciously twists one of her nipples through her bra. Oh, she _likes_ this version of Gideon.

Things blur for the next several minutes, as Ianthe resumes riding Harrow’s face and Gideon shamelessly feels up every inch of her she can reach. It takes all of Ianthe’s focus and considerable muscular effort to keep this up and still vaguely stimulate Gideon; even naked in the cold, she’s sweating, but she deems the exertion ... rewarding. 

Ianthe’s getting perilously close to the edge when she decides she very much wants Gideon to come with her. She uses the last of her coordination to twist her hand so she can rest weight on Harrow’s mons and thrust the tips of two fingers back inside her. 

This is apparently the final straw. Beneath her, Gideon’s whole body tightens and shakes. Harrow’s fingernails dig into Ianthe’s breast and hip, and Gideon reflexively slams her head backwards into the floor, face contorted in a silent richtus of pleasure. Ianthe drinks in the sight for a long suspended minute, diligently curling her fingers as Gideon’s orgasm stretches to conclusion. Finally, she goes limp and Ianthe withdraws her fingers.

Well, she will just have to catch up. She’s leaning forward again, reaching down to touch herself with the same hand she’d used to bring her partner off, when Gideon slaps her arms away.

“‘m not done yet,” the Cavalier protests, and sloppily presses her tongue into Ianthe once more. In Ianthe’s present state of arousal, that’s all it takes to send Ianthe over the precipice.

She lets herself shout, full-voiced, vaguely hears Gideon say “yes,” again. And then it feels as though she is in freefall, her world spinning.

As the waves of her orgasm wash through and then past her, Ianthe realizes her world actually _is_ spinning. And then her head makes violent contact with a hard surface - the floor? Once, twice. On the next strike, Ianthe decides it’s not worth the effort and lets herself slip amiably into unconsciousness.

\---

When she groggily comes to, it takes her a few seconds to comprehend her surroundings. She’s still in the cramped engine coolant systems access room… but Gideon’s gun and all her binders and paraphernalia are absent. So is Gideon herself. Ianthe’s small dagger is resting politely beside her hip, blade smeared with pink and off-white remnants of the flesh ropes Gideon had used it to slice through.

Ianthe finds her own discarded shirt, underwear and boots piled like an apology next to her but… evidently, Gideon has taken Ianthe’s pants. Ianthe supposes she deserved that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a nutshell, this entire fic series is just Ianthe messaging Gideon on Okcupid, and the when Gideon views Ianthe’s profile it looks like this : 0% friend, 0% match, 100% enemy **"I spend a lot of time thinking about: IF I’M GONNA MAKE YOU SQUART ACROSS THE ROOM!!!!!!!”**
> 
> anyway let me know what you think of my 'sick pornographies'


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